It has always been the same thing.
I wish to sit in serendipity amongst books; shelves and shelves of them lined up perfectly surrounding the walls, covering the room with that antique mesmerizing smell of their pages. Each page tells a tale, a story waiting to be heard, a horizon waiting to be discovered. And as the sunlight shines into the room through the full length window, I dreamt myself sitting on a red couch next to the window receiving the warmth from the sunshine while I absorb every single tiny word printed on the book I hold in my hand. Here, I can imagine the words are dancing to me, forming a story painting a picture as I go further and further into the book.
Oh yes, I can imagine myself sitting by that window for hours and hours, and my only companions are the books, a cup of warm green tea by the window till. Floating in the air is the sweet scent of books prancing with the soft scent from the burning candle afar, vanilla, I imagined it to be. Oh the joy, the peace and quiet, the perfect retreat and a perfect Sunday afternoon.
That, my dear, is love.