I shuffle up the quiet narrow staircase, attempting to soften the clunk of my shoes with each step. Looking down, I notice that there are slight dips in the stone surfaces right where my feet land. How many people must have climbed these stairs? But currently the stacks of Mullen Library are deserted. The sound of my afternoon adventure beats me up the stairs and echoes across the room I enter, accompanied only by the faint sound of a generator. It snores while I work my way around and through the metal shelves, running my fingers along the spines of ageless books. My eyes are glancing over titles like The Routledge History and Discourse On Method when I realize I should probably be doing some homework. But I keep wandering, allowing myself this time to enjoy the sense of quiet and calm that rests over the stacks like a gentle blanket of dust. 

I climb another flight of stairs and amble across the floor to the far side of the room by the windows, the warm glow of natural light beckoning me. Peering through the glass, I take delight in the aerial view of this corner of campus. The top of a tree glows vermilion and a girl walks with a little golden dog, while I wish for a table and chair to simply materialize in the sunlight of the window; there I could sit and write, enjoying the view and bookish atmosphere. But I am unable to summon this through sheer will, so instead I turn away from the window and climb higher and higher and keep weaving through books, until I am at the topmost floor of Mullen. I deem a random shelf the final destination of my adventure, and study the books propped on the shelf at my 5’3’’ eye level. Copies with weathered covers and fading gold script stand at attention, bearing titles of academia and Roman numerals of rank. As much as I appreciate the intrigue of these books, I do not find myself moved by them; unlike creative writing, academic writing does not typically have that effect on me. So I acknowledge their stoic beauty and slip away, finding a side staircase to make my way back down to the bottom floor. Once there, I feel a bit unsatisfied. Was that really the end? I get the feeling that perhaps I may have missed something, so instead of exiting the stacks I take a right and push through the hallway door. I step through and the door swings shut behind me with a dull thud. Looking around, I find more uniform shelves and a room just as deserted as the rest of the stacks. 

Suddenly, I get the funny feeling that I might fall into trouble for being here. It is a childlike thought, reminiscent of wandering into my elementary school library without any teachers being present. But, despite this nostalgic sense of delinquency, I walk further into the room, until the very last shelves are completely barren of books. It is a curious sight, these empty shelves, like I had wandered through all of Mullen until it eventually ran out of words to share. I turn to leave, when something like a memory flashes before my eyes. Looking more closely at the last stocked shelf, I think I recognize a cover. Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets? I step closer and recognize all of the Harry Potter series, amongst many more childhood titles. My eyes dance along spines decorated in purples and oranges and blues, bearing words like magic and quest and prince. After rows and rows of academia, I happened to stumble across one of the most pure forms of creative writing: children’s literature. I look at the end of the shelf to see it labeled “Juvenile.” I am again transported back to my elementary school library, but this time I am immersed in the wonder of it. So many stories to hold, so many adventures to go on! Practically beaming with glee, I walk down this Memory Lane tugging books from their spots on the shelves. I find ones I recognize then ones I do not; I reach for Harry Potter then discover An Imp of Mischief, a little picture book about an adventurous bear cub copyrighted in 1927. Pasted in this cloud of wonder I stand, at the very edge of the library.