Where Calm is Found

Sunlight, veiled by the thick glass of the colorfully stained window, dimly lights the spacious, misty room. To the left of the window stretches a short expanse of gray stone wall, as smooth as the surface of a lake. In elegant lettering, many Latin inscriptions stand out in the wall. Then, the corner of the wall curves into the high arched ceiling. On the adjacent wall, stands a tall, dark, rosewood bookshelf, looming over the floor like a skyscraper. Upon the shelf old, tattered books give off a musty smell, providing the room with an ancient air as if it had survived through an eternity. Adjoining the bookshelf’s side, a stone wall curves up to the ceiling parallel to the windowed wall. To the left of this even more large, rosewood bookshelves reach almost to the end of the wall. They hold on their shelves a vast collection of language, mythology, fiction, and fantasy works that stand in much better condition than the tattered, books on the right-hand side. Beside these shelves, an elegantly curving vine like those drawn inside the capital letters upon pages transcribed by diligent monks, climbs up to the ceiling, and falls airily around the great oak doors. Scattered along the vine various silky, red blossoms with beaming, golden centers radiate a flowery fragrance. The vine twines around various cracks, giving a mystical, enchanting feel to the room. Then, it stops abruptly. The wall opposite appears almost identical to the one opposite it, only carrying different sorts of more-modern books. Then, the corner divides this wall and the wall containing the great stained-glass window. On the right side of the window, about four and a half feet off the ground rests a round edge shelf with two brackets, made of light oak. Three books lie there, having grown dusty with time, the covers unreadable, their pages yellowed. In front of the window stands a grand mahogany table. Upon the table, sits a book, illuminated by a tall, lit, white candle held by a silver candlestick in the form of several fairies dancing. Around the edges of the table, a golden inlay makes its way, creating a shimmer affect, almost as if the table swayed in constant motion like the sea. The mighty, cylindrical legs proudly hold up the sturdy table. Underneath the table, a young woman kneels, feeling for a lost pencil. A sturdy, colonial chair settles itself in front of the table and to the left of the woman. It wears a smooth black cushion and craftily curving arms. The room, quiet as a library and calm as a summer breeze, prevails seemingly outside of time with its ancient smells and textures and soft atmosphere, and the woman stays there, trapped in the constant stillness of the painting.