The Furthest Nook
In the furthest nook, the smallest cranny in my house sits a large, pillowy bean bag, pale blue with age. In the mornings, the sun glides its rays over it, stroking the fuzzy grey lint of the carpet beneath. This bean bag is snuggled into the corner, between the wall and the ceiling-to-floor glass window. As I go to lay in it, the leaves and petals of the plants on the shelves, and the stools, and the floor, all dance happily in the wind, swaying as if joyful to see me.
The carpet tickles my toes as I pick up my favourite book and breathe in its musky, papery scent. The smell of old parchment fills my nose and my brain with a sense of serenity. Turning the pages over, and over, and over; I lose myself in a fantasy world woven from ink and pressed leaves. I tune the real world out. All I can hear is the turning of pages, but the trickle of the miniature waterfall wedged into the corner opposite me seeps into my ears. I read for a while more, whether minutes of hours, I cannot tell. I close the book, and gingerly place it beside me, thought the calligraphy in the title seems to be calling my name; ‘just one page more’, it whispers. I turn away.
Instead, I peer into the wide tank of the little guppies playing with one another. The fish race through the water, jumping and diving deeper once in a while. A shadow seems to be cast over the water, it gets darker as a few seconds pass. The scales on the fish’s back get duller, but their spirits do the opposite. They seem more excited than ever before. As I turn towards the window, my gaze is met with a large grey cloud, darkness and density pooling towards the bottom as if pushing to be released. I blink. The floodgates open. The pitter-patter of rain against the glass and the tarmac enters the open air.
The ripples across the ground and heaven’s droplets racing down the glass form a masterpiece of a painting. The trees and plants around me preen at the crystal tears falling from above. Their leaves rustle, and their branches shake as a cool draft flows in through a crack in the sliding door. I nestle myself back into the bean bag and I finally pick up the call. It seems excited as its pages eagerly flutter with the breeze. I flip through more pages, the sounds of the water cascading down the window smoothing out any wrinkles in my eyebrows, soothing any worry in my heart. I feel my eyelids start to droop, my limbs starting to fall limp against the cushioning.
In the furthest nook, the smallest cranny, sits a large , pillowy bean bag, pale blue with age. In the corner, you will find peace of mind, and serenity that warms your soul and cools your mind. The spirits of the trees and rain will lull you to sleep, those of the creatures jumping on your mattress once in a while. It is where you may simply lay, without a worry in the world.
