Descriptive- the Book I Want Essay Example for Free

Descriptive- the Book I Want EssayThere are moments during the day when there is just too much commotion. White noise hisses from the television in the corner. The gamy pitch buzz of rock music blares from earbuds implanted into the ears of some angiotensin-converting enzyme nearby. Even the insistent clickity-clack of fingers across a computer keyboard search to add to the flurry of traffic already flushed into my heading, via my overwhelmed ears. For me, there is one moment in my day that quiet is treasured. When I can no eternal take it, I escape to a brick and mortar book investment company and treat myself to a hardback book. When I walk in, I am always interpreted aback by the towering displays of tomes the prerailway cariously perched novels appearing like high divers waiting to plunge to the earth below. I find myself tipping-toeing around the profit tables, holding my breath to keep their de sense of smell from happening. I scan the plethora of shelves for somethin g to read. Then, without warning, I see it. Hiding away, leaned back against a cold metal shelf, is the one I want my book of choice, Ready Player One by Ernest Cline. The glossy red and yellow book jacket stands in sharp personal credit line to the harsh, dulled brown of its perch, like a square apple hanging from a gnarled tree.The crisp, jacket edges fall like a neatly pleated razzing around a strong sturdy backing. Embossed letters softly raise themselves to my eyes as if to say, hello, and bid me to take them home. I snitch uniformed ivory pages sandwiched between the black binding, gnomish gaps in the spacing attempt to cry 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 beneath loosen up meager fingers. The imprinted title on the books sleeve rolls beneath my fingertips, like gently sloping mountains surrounding wide expansive valleys. Tracing foreign the lettering, I find the rest of the cover faintly akin to sandpaper, and draw my fingers back. I rest the digest atop flat 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 carry enough weight as contend and Peace might. It would make a lovely specimen in my growing collect.I tenderly run my fingertips across closed pages, savoring the minute breaker point 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 f ront of the store to purchase my indulgence.I brush off the jacket only to find the swishing of my hand calls to mind the gentle simmer of butter in a ardent 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 echoing thud sounds like a dropped suitcase on a marble floor in an empty airport terminal, always louder then you expect it to be. I swipe my credit measure as the smiling young lady behind the register hurriedly wraps my treasure in plastic, places a paper receipt 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 way of life and secluded chair. My breath catches in my throat as I think of how wonderful it will be to relish in the first written lyric of the story. I imagine myself like Neil Armstrong, excep t taking a step into a new fantasy and not onto the moon. The drive home is marred with endless lines of cars braking at multiple stoplights. We pulse between the gas and brake pedals, like the jerky motion of a springy horse at a universal 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 curled 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 heart leaps at the memory of my hushed home its tranquility will only add to the soothing moments I plan on spending with Mr.Cline, an escape from the hustle of noise. wrench 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 noise 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, 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 time will be trumped by the clamor next door. And wouldnt you guess it, I was right.