Descriptive- the Book I Want Essay

There are moments during the day when there is on the button too much noise. White noise hisses from the television in the corner. The extravagantly pitch buzz of rock music blares from earbuds implanted into the ears of someone nearby. thus far the insistent clickity-clack of fingers across a computer keyboard seem to add to the gyp 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 yearner give it, I escape to a brick and mortar bookstore and treat myself to a hardback book.When I walk in, I am always taken aback by the towering displays of tomes the pre machineiously perched novels appearing like exalted divers waiting to plunge to the earth below. I find myself tipping-toeing slightly the pyramid tables, holding my breath to keep their descent from happening. I hold down the plethora of shelves for something to read. Then, with come forth warning, I see it. Hiding away, leaned b ack against a ratty metal shelf, is the one I want my book of choice, Ready shammer One by Ernest Cline. The glossy red and yellow book peak stands in sharp contrast to the harsh, dulled brown of its perch, like a square apple hanging from a gnarled tree.The crisp, jacket edges spill like a neatly pleated skirt around a rigid sturdy backing. Embossed letters softly raise themselves to my eyes as if to say, hello, and bid me to take them home. I spy uniformed pearl rogues sandwiched between the black binding, sm every last(predicate) gaps in the spacing attempt to promise out with a silent, open at me first. My mind reels at what might be uncovered once I take it home, do I dare? The hardback emits such 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 on a lower floor warm meager fingers. The imprinted title on the books arm rolls beneath my fingertips, like gently sloping mountains surrounding wide tremendous valleys. Tracing outside the lettering, I find the rest of the cover faintly akin to sandpaper, and draw my fingers back. I rest the digest atop level(p) palms to feel for its weight & length. It is not so light that it may be mistaken for a mere picture book, yet it does not drool enough weight as War and Peace might. It would make a lovely specimen in my growing 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 reveal 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 depend of the store to purchase my indulgence.I brush off the jacket tho to find the swishing of my hand calls to mind the gentle simmer of butter in a hot pan upon the stove. For an instant, my desire for my book is momentarily eclipsed by my hunger, as I place my prize upon the cashiers stand. The emit thud sounds like a dropped suitcase on a marble floor in an empty airport terminal, always louder then you enquire it to be. I swipe my credit card as the smiling recent lady behind the register hurriedly wraps my treasure in plastic, places a paper receipt inside the dishful, 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 reduce home to the safety of my quiet room and withdraw chair. My breath catches in my throat as I think of how wondrous it will be to relish in the first written language of the story. I imagine myself like Neil Armstrong, except taking a quantity into a new fantasy and not onto the moon. The drive home is impair with endless lines of cars braking at multiple stoplights. We pulse between the gas and halt pedals, like the jerky motion of a springy horse at a public playground.The constant rocking forward and back has started to slowly hush up 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 fade deeply. The lingering spice of aged leather and printer ink reminds me of long hours curled up in the quiet, delighting in an authors rash language. I slowly exhale my valued lungful of air, when I notice I am within reach of my home. My heart leaps at the memory of my dull home its tranquility will only add to the soothing moments I plan on spending with Mr.Cline, an escape from the hustle of noise. Pulling into my highway I get a twinge in my heart of something kaput(p) wrong, like the smell of looming rain before a massive storm. The car door slamming should be thunderous, but its noise is drowned out by the flying thumping of a bass drum. Making my way into the house, the clash of a high hat cymbal rattles the glass, distinctly 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 age will be trumped by the clamor next door. And wouldnt you adventure it, I was right.