book - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The book was several hundred white pages, each gentle to the fingertips. Upon them was the wisdom of her soul; those feelings of love channelled through great knowledge and a lifetime of meditative contemplation. In that humble ink was the liveliness of her brain, how her synapses danced as if they were young all her days. That book, it was what a person could accomplish in decades if their soul was forever as pure as a child.
The book and desk, these cousins of the tree, sat near the window and the view of the woodland beyond. Upon the flowing grains was the flowing ink, both so still. And it would be that way until Seraphim returned, returned to bring purpose and life to the duo.
The book took its time to sleep and its time to sing. For on those pages were a heart song, the sweetness of a soul passed on. It was no ghost, nor voice from beyond, yet it haunted us in all the right ways. For the pen is only mightier when it calls others to show the heart through the pen also; not those cheap charlatans who use it to speak of swords. The musician does not take his bow as a weapon, that is for the archer. Thus it was pure reason with a soul, words with a rhythm that echoed through humanity. So regardless of the dust that came, or the length of the slumbers between each humble opening line, it was just as good every time.
The book opened as sweetly as spring flowers. Upon those soft leaves were words for the soul, a poetry that asked the core of each person for a dance. For it was written so deeply that it spoke of them more clearly than they could; it whispered the words ears lent themselves too gladly, as if from a wise mother. Inka enjoyed imagining the writer with a magic wand for a pen, that she was some sort of inter-dimensional refuge. Somehow this fantasy added to the ambience each line she brought about, as if ideas could be both seed and aromatic flower all at once, a full lifecycle in an eternal instant.
In the early morning light the pages of the book fluttered in the breeze, oblivious to the sounds of the shower or the chorus Rika chose to sing. It was her favourite; the one she could read over and over and still want more. Those creased pages within the soft green cover were her elixir. In every reading she was the heroine, the one who saved the day and still had time for fun. Each time she climbed the mountains and spoke the best lines: wise and humorous. She felt so safe in that book, sailing over the words as if she were a velvet-coated captain. Somehow, in those pages she was freer than in all the libraries of the world, as if one book was her universe.
The book was a simple earthy hued cover, warming to the eyes, comforting. After all these years it was soft to the touch and the edges had a similar look to some beloved teddy bear. Inside the pages looked as if they had bathed in golden rays and taken them in, so softly golden were they. And the letters took their places as if by a composer's hand, one who was accustomed to the sweeter notes of beauty.