The Perpetual Recluse

We were asked to write a descriptive essay,of about 300-350 words, about a place where we feel comfortable, as a school assignment, so here’s what I wrote.

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I have a recluse, a perpetual recluse. The mesmerizing eternity of my recluse lures the thinker till it becomes absolutely irresisitible. My recluse is where doors of knowledge are open, forever. It is where every thought is equally worthy and where perceptions are given life. And still, that life is beautified with imagination. It is where solitude is so often attained and yet, is so unreachable, because every moment is shared. It is where I can be whatever I wish to and I can see whatever I wish to. I can see the buds sprout, or watch the leaves wilt. Yet, every array of thoughts is never considered erroneous.

With every moment, in my wonderland, I enter a new realm-a realm so magically true that I lose myself in it. Thoughts drift through wildernesses, remote islands, modernized settlements, poor villages and opulent palaces. Every time I enter my recluse, life is illuminated and inspirations are sparked. Every visit to my world of comfort becomes an unforgettable odyssey, far, far, from an itinerary. Unanticipated ventures and unplanned journeys cascade down to the river of memories. Riparian tears and smiles sparkle along the memories. My recluse averts melancholy to joy and hope is born ,anew.

I sit on a wooden chair, whose metal rods poke at the khaki carpet covering the floor. Many other such concentric chairs surround a large round table piled with books of all shapes, sizes, colours, hues and tints. Each of the many towering wooden shelves of sandy brown wood showcase books aligned atop the labels on the edges of the shelves-each label representing a different genre,a different world. As I sit on the chair nearest to the shelves, I see the tiny door embellished with inspiring quotations facing me. Beside it, is a small desk, barely fit for a person to use. It is stacked with books, pencils, registration cards and the remains of what seems to be a dismantled pen-holder. I gaze at the shelves; each, a whorl of primroses, daffodils, daisies and every flower I can dream of. My perpetual recluse, is the library on street 20, where words survive, even when people do not.

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