Descriptive- the Book I Want Essay

There are moments during the day when there is just besides much noise. White noise hisses from the television in the corner. The high pitch buzz of rock unison blares from earbuds implanted into the ears of someone nearby. Even the insistent clickity-clack of fingers across a computer keyboard seem to add to the dither of traffic already flushed into my mind, via my overwhelmed ears. For me, there is one moment in my day that quiet is treasured. When I can no longer take it, I escape to a brick and mortar bookstore and mete erupt myself to a hardback book.When I walk in, I am al styluss taken aback by the towering displays of tomes the precariously perched novels appearing like high divers waiting to plunge to the earth below. I baring myself tipping-toeing around the pyramid tables, holding my snorkel to keep their descent from happening. I scan the embarrassment of shelves for something to read. Then, without warning, I see it. Hiding away, leaned back against a cold metal shelf, is the one I expect my book of choice, Ready Player One by Ernest Cline. The glossy red and yellow book pennant stands in sharp contrast to the harsh, dulled brown of its perch, like a square apple interruption from a gnarled tree.The crisp, jacket edges fall like a neatly pleated skirt around a strong sturdy backing. Embossed letters softly raise themselves to my eyes as if to say, hello, and offer up me to take them home. I spy uniformed ivory pages sandwiched between the black binding, small gaps in the lay attempt to cry out with a silent, open at me first. My mind reels at what capacity be uncovered once I take it home, do I dare? The hardback emits much(prenominal) a yearning to me, that I cannot stop a gently quivering hand from reaching out and lifting it off the ledge.At first touch, the novel is cool and smooth beneath warm meager fingers. The imprinted gloss on the books sleeve rolls beneath my fingertips, like gently sloping mountains surrounding immens e expansive valleys. Tracing outside the lettering, I find the rest of the cover faintly akin to sand write up, and mold my fingers back. I rest the digest atop flat palms to feel for its weight & length. It is not so set out that it may be mistaken for a mere picture book, yet it does not carry nice weight as War and Peace might. It would act upon a lovely specimen in my suppuration collect.I tenderly run my fingertips across closed pages, savoring the minute detail of mismatched page lengths. Subsequently, I soothingly open the story just enough to hear it murmur to me. My ears delight in the sudden recognition of hundreds of small birds fluttering, as if startled by someone traipsing through their habitat. Closing the lid on this glee, I am met by the crackling pop of the books spine a tribute to a roaring fire that would be waiting for us once we reached home. Sighing softly, I make my way to the front of the store to purchase my indulgence.I brush off the jacket only to f ind the swishing of my hand calls to mind the gentle simmer of butter in a hot pan upon the stove. For an instant, my appetency for my book is momentarily eclipsed by my hunger, as I place my prize upon the cashiers stand. The let loose thud sounds like a dropped suitcase on a marble floor in an vacant airport terminal, always louder then you expect it to be. I swipe my credit card as the sunny young lady behind the register hurriedly wraps my treasure in plastic, places a paper pass on inside the bag, presents me with my purchase, and thrusts me towards the exit.Walking out, I have a sense of anticipation building within my chest. I have my prize, and all that remains is to get home to the safety of my quiet room and secluded chair. My breath catches in my throat as I think of how wonderful it will be to relish in the first written words of the story. I imagine myself like Neil Armstrong, except taking a standard into a new fantasy and not onto the moon. The drive home is mar red with endless lines of cars braking at ternary stoplights. We pulse between the gas and brake pedals, like the jerky motion of a springy cater at a public playground.The constant rocking forward and back has started to slowly lull me to sleep, so I turn up the air, unexpectedly puffing the bag around my reward. Immediately, the vents push the scent of new paper into my face, I breathe deeply. The lingering spice of aged leather and printer ink reminds me of long hours change surface up in the quiet, delighting in an authors heady language. I slowly exhale my valued lungful of air, when I notice I am within reach of my home. My kindling leaps at the memory of my soft home its tranquility will only add to the soothing moments I plan on spend with Mr.Cline, an escape from the hustle of noise. Pulling into my driveway I get a twinge in my heart of something gone wrong, like the smell of looming rain before a massive storm. The car door slamming should be thunderous, but its no ise is drowned out by the riotous thumping of a bass drum. Making my way into the house, the clash of a high hat cymbal rattles the glass, discretely reminding me of lightning doing the same during the last storm. Somehow, I get the distinct feeling that my attempts to have a quiet, relaxed noiseless reading time will be trumped by the cry (out) next door. And wouldnt you guess it, I was right.