The Literature Club room was a cozy sanctuary for the quiet ones, or for those who prefer the quiet. It was like a regular classroom but with more space to move around, especially that it only had eleven members at the moment, including me.
At first glance, there was nothing special in it: the walls, the windows, the chairs, the board, even the lone cactus in a pot. But the more time I spent in this room, the more I noticed how special it was. Maybe it’s the way the ceiling reflects the sunlight. Or the way the leaves rustle from the trees outside. Or the way birds chirp casually. Or the way each of us breathe on our own, but in harmony. In peace.
The most noticeable objects for me were: the book shelves containing titles I had never come across with (which only confirmed how narrow my usual reading list was, and how little I had read, given the list); and the postings on the wall which was my favorite. Poems, letters, quotes, articles, but mostly poems.
