The Writing Room.

I sit in a corner,leaning on a beige pillow,my beloved copy of Jane Eyre in my hands. It’s a small nook that’s more precious to me than any other material possession. It’s a small 6×6 feet loft with a simple mattress laid on the floor. The bright red sheet covering the mattress is off set by the numerous beige and wine red pillows scattered all around. The walls are lined with bookshelves,the scent of old,well-loved books with tattered spines heavy in the air. One wall contains books passed down by my grandfather,favoured by my father and cherished by me. The adjacent wall holds books I have added to an already extensive family collection.

On the other end of this wall is my corner. A simple enough place,a place that gives me somewhere to go when Reality is overwhelming.
A third wall holds stationery because on some days,you need an ink pen and creamy white paper to write upon. Rows upon rows of beautiful papers fill the shelves, but the third shelf from the bottom is different. It has a stack of midnight blue A4 sized sheets,a stack of envelopes, a wax stick, a stamp and a burner.
This shelf is where all dreams begin. It is meant for writing about only those things which are closest to your heart. Your soul is on those captivating blue sheets sealed in an envelope with wax and stamped with a beautiful filigree pattern. This is for mailing to a person who owns part of your soul.This is for reading on those days when it seems too much,too fast, too hard. This is to remind you that You can and You will. Because you once dared to dream.

The final 4th wall to complete this structure…does not exist. In it’s place is a full length window,opening to a regular city view. Rooftops and tall buildings in the distance,a tree outside the window,the road four flights down. The view reminds you that beauty and inspiration lies in the Everyday.

And finally to complete the vision, a typewriter on a table about a foot off the ground lies opposite to my corner,the 2 adjacent book walls. I see myslef sitting cross-legged in front of it,typing away for all I’m worth,Briony by Dario Marianelli playing softly in the background.

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Kiss Slowly.

There’s a lot this particular theme makes you think about. I couldn’t think about anything to focus on. In the end,I just went for it,you know,like you’d go in for a kiss.
***~***
She. She is shrouded by the shadows, save for a dim light that throws into sharp relief her angular jawline. Where is she? What is that light?
  Is she in a garden at midnight,waiting for her lover by the light of the moon?
Is she on the porch after curfew,silently saying goodnight to that someone?
Is she on the balcony,sneaking in a few stolen moments?

In silence,she waits,a midnight blue shawl covering her shoulders. She pulls it tighter around herself,folding her arms against her chest to keep out the winter chill. Her eyes search,even as the night becomes darker.

She can hear the owls hoot. All she has to keep her company are the thoughts swirling around incessantly in her head.
The sound of car backfiring in the distance makes her jump.

Her face jerks upward,her long,chestnut hair whipping across it in the wind. She’s still waiting,her eyes shine with anticipation even as they betray a tinge of desperation.

Is it a long awaited meeting? A repressed desire slowly coming to the fore?
Or is it the last meeting of two people bound inextricably to each other?

The sound of footsteps betrays his presence.
She can hardly breathe,she closes her eyes, the maelstrom of emotions almost too much to bear.

They meet.

And when he picks her up and twirls her around, the sound of her spirited laughter is more melodious than anything ever heard because it rings with true happiness. He puts her back down on her feet and the shawl falls to the ground,unnoticed by either.
You know by now,reader,what comes next.

They kiss.

With passion and desire swirling in a vortex around them. Slow kisses,the kind that warms you up from the inside. The kind that you’d travel 3000 miles for. The kind shared by two people who care,truly.

They kiss.

Once.

Twice.

Thrice.

And it is perfect.

**************
Part 4 of the ‘ life is short’ series. ¬©Angrezikabutar