The Perfect Magazine Cover

The room is like a perfect magazine cover; I'm afraid to sit in case I wrinkle the fabric or stain it with something I don't even know is on my shorts for it is so perfect the slightest damage could ruin it. The couch is cream but inlaid with a fine green silk; leaves embroidered so delicately that they might have landed there in spring and just sunk in, left unnoticed, but I know they must have taken hundreds of hours to sew. The white curtains are linen, the kind of pale that is untouched by hands and devoid of dust. A cursory look to the right shows me the almost hidden cords that are used to open and close them. There is no television and no dining table, only the chairs arranged neatly intermingled with bright colourful oil lamps. The photographs in oak frames upon the walls are black and white arranged to look like such by a professional. Any one of them wouldn't look out of place in a spread of Hello. The floor is a high polished wood, dark and free of either dust or clutter.

Author Notes: First day of my mindfulness challenge

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