The inside is beating, transmitting energy that is difficult to decipher. Every book is a wise old men who can teach you to fish for the rest of your life. Its design, a glorious sunset even now, 10:00 o’clock in the morning. The careful lighting that covers the books and all those beautiful colors, opaque yellow, brown, red and dark green that transmit eldeness and wisdom. I ask myself how a building can contain this amount of knowledgement.
Even when it is created from stone it lets you feel through its skin the softness of the place. The few people that we can find in this place where you can feel the overwhelming feeling similar to a temple walk with soft and slow steps to avoid disturbing other people.
Why if this building has a lot of space they don’t use it. All the books are concentrated in the middle and in each corner small glass boxes have books in exhibition but between the middle and the corners an abyss pounces between a book and another.
A library, how magnificent and explendid it can be. A place that covers you with the feeling of comfort and well-being.
When I was six years old, my mother left me in Mexico to pursue the American Dream. This story affected my life as a women, as a kid and as a human being. My mother was everything to me because she had divorced my father when I was three. I was about to turn seven years when the most important person in my life had to move away from me. She had worked as hard as she could in Mexico to support me and my two brothers. When I was four we moved to another city to start from the beginning. We moved to a big house, to a horrid and murky house where we tried to make a home. My mom started working long hours in two different jobs. The work absorbed all her time that we needed a nanny. We survived for three years living with the ghost of my mother because she was never really there, but she was being the best mother she could. But she finally reached the point of exhaustion, working long hours and not having enough money to support her th...
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