It is a large rectangular room, taking up the entire length of the house. Two of the walls are composed entirely of windows. One leads out into a terrace. The other two walls are lined with wooden shelves.
The shelves are filled with books of all shapes and sizes and colours. There are large silk bound tomes, yellow and spotted with age. There are dark pocket-sized paperbacks. There are kitschy pink books, unashamedly proclaiming themselves chicklit. There are cardboard-bound bundles of old magazines. There are no children's books, but the absence is hardly felt.
Delicate IKEA windchimes flutter near both the sets of windows. The breeze brings in the scent of trees and cold water. Beyond these windows can be seen green hills with streams sneaking their way among them. From the terrace on the eastern side can be seen a white waterfall. It gleams red in the morning.
Before these windows were built, bringing with them light and greenery and openness, the overall atmosphere in the room had been one of dark somber dignity. Something of that atmosphere remains. Everything is wooden - the shelves, the floor, the furniture. But there are a few bursts of colour here and there - some red flowers in a vase on the desk, mulitcoloured polka-dotted curtains, lime green cushions on the chairs, delicate white lace on a sidetable.
The room has a lived-in welcoming feel to it. The books on the shelves look like they have been read, and not bought to fulfill some intellectual vanity. A handful of books lie on the desk beside an open laptop computer. A cup of coffee congeals near them. A pair of spectacles stands guard to the coffee cup, its legs splayed protectively on either side of the saucer.
The owner of the room stands at the western windows. She is gazing out at the hills. And she is a happy person.
The shelves are filled with books of all shapes and sizes and colours. There are large silk bound tomes, yellow and spotted with age. There are dark pocket-sized paperbacks. There are kitschy pink books, unashamedly proclaiming themselves chicklit. There are cardboard-bound bundles of old magazines. There are no children's books, but the absence is hardly felt.
Delicate IKEA windchimes flutter near both the sets of windows. The breeze brings in the scent of trees and cold water. Beyond these windows can be seen green hills with streams sneaking their way among them. From the terrace on the eastern side can be seen a white waterfall. It gleams red in the morning.
Before these windows were built, bringing with them light and greenery and openness, the overall atmosphere in the room had been one of dark somber dignity. Something of that atmosphere remains. Everything is wooden - the shelves, the floor, the furniture. But there are a few bursts of colour here and there - some red flowers in a vase on the desk, mulitcoloured polka-dotted curtains, lime green cushions on the chairs, delicate white lace on a sidetable.
The room has a lived-in welcoming feel to it. The books on the shelves look like they have been read, and not bought to fulfill some intellectual vanity. A handful of books lie on the desk beside an open laptop computer. A cup of coffee congeals near them. A pair of spectacles stands guard to the coffee cup, its legs splayed protectively on either side of the saucer.
The owner of the room stands at the western windows. She is gazing out at the hills. And she is a happy person.
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3 comments:
And i want to be her!
So do I, so do I. This is my fantasy. Though sometimes it's an island, and sometimes it's hills.
Good words.
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