The Dream

Morning light washed over the room. The sunshine shone over the neatly stacked paper in the corner of the desk. It was fine paper, with a ghost-like watermark tinting its surface. It was resting on top of some beautifully snowy hand-made sheets. The desk itself was made of beautiful rich wood, and had been carved with little faces and hands peeking out of the tooled edges. There were large, deep draws on each side, and a rack at the far end that held all manner of writing paraphernalia. There were a long line of inkbottles in a row, here a heavy bottle containing rich blue, there a squat bottle filled with black. There was a series of coloured inks too, each in tiny bottles that had been sealed with a dab of wax. The first was red, the second a lush green, the third a misty blue. The triangular label on each one told of their qualities. The ink it contained stained the portion of cork visible through the delicate glass.

There was a battered blue case along the ledge from the inks. If you were to open the case, you would find inside a beautiful fountain pen, with a blood red grip and a gilded nib. Further, past the pen, was a small jar containing a luxurious peacock-feather quill. It winked in the light. The nib was clean and free from inky residue. On the other side of the quill was a small container of blue biros, to be grabbed when all else failed, or when a phone number or note needed to be jotted down.

Underneath the rack containing the ink and pens was a space for journals. There were several art books, without lines inside them, filled with scrawls and half-baked ideas. Then there were the lined pages, within the sensible journals. There were a few half-written letters as well as a running order for a particularly tricky plot. Some of the journals were completely full, with pieces of paper jammed behind the covers and bookmarks poking out from every angle. They were messy and wild, full of long, impossible sentences and frantic scratchings. It was writing in its purest, raw form.

A smooth leather journal was open on the desk. The lines of writing were clear and precise. There was none of the meandering that was found in the other tomes, rather the structure was more planned and controlled. The rubicund cover was soft and unblemished.

To the right of the desk stood a tall bookshelf. It was made of the same deep, polished wood as the desk. It was stacked to the gills with hundreds of books. They were of varying sizes and had flashy covers. Some were old and tatty, and had little cracks along the spines. Others looked as if they had never been read. Their pristine covers sparkled in the morning sunlight. The shelf was dust-free and orderly. The polished wood was deep and strong. It was a fitting tribute to the books on its shelf.