color - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Along the seafront was every color that could tumble from a box of pastels. In the sunlight they were soft no matter how bright the light became, and always just as pleasing as the gelato that sat in our waffle cones.
The colours after the rain were that bit more beautiful, like God had polished the world anew. And how could we resent those blessed drops? For with them came the greenery, the gay flowers and every other bit of life we so adored.
Grey like the serenity that flows from the crevice of the same lips that he used to inhale the demon that placed him in front of a joining tombstone. The color of the ashes that line the soul of my shoe from the fire we burned in the mountains last weekend while we got hammered, in order to forget about our miserable lives. The shaded part of my past that stays hidden behind the walls I have worked so hard to keep up. The color of the treadmill's track that I ran until I threw up every last insecurity I had. The lighter shade of her black mascara from an hour before he came to bed after having to stay after hours to meet a deadline for work. The murky water that clouds my mother’s eyes and slowly runs down her cheek. Grey like the hairs of the man that has cannot remember my name, or the eighteen years he spent raising me. The color of the window curtains that I have spent hours behind, doing things the outside world can never know about. Grey like the color of us.
The colors of the town had faded over time, so much so that now there was a certain shabbiness. Ken swore that just a few years ago the townsfolk had walked with heads held high... no longer. Without the jobs there was just the bingo hall and cheap take-out food to place band-aids on their weeping pride.
The pink dusty road before us, the scrub and the dark pines, lay always between these depths of blue. The sea was calm; as one looked down, it drown the eye like a second zenith, but bluer still; bluer than lapis, or sapphire, or whatever flower is bluest; and then again, in the dark clear shadows round the deep roots of the rocks, green and grape-purple, like the ring-dove's sheen.
His idea of color was a peony, with the dew of early morning on it's petals. The intense blue of the sea, as he saw it a mile or two away, from the Quincy hills; the cumuli in a June afternoon sky; the strong reds and greens and purples of colored prints and children's picture-books, as the American colors then ran these were ideals. The opposites or antipathies were the cold grays of November evenings, and the thick, muddy thaws of Boston winter.
Tammy ran her hand over the kitchen wall tiles, each one of them a smooth horizontal glass bar about two pencils thick. Perhaps pulled away from the wall they would be translucent, perhaps they would cast the irrepressible sunlight into the seaside tones they were. The deepest of them was like driftwood, another was the same hue as the sand at Camber, the blue was like the ocean on a cool Autumn day rather than the brilliant blue of the tourist season...
The Colour of YOU
He’s my Peace, my Smile, my Sigh
My Laughter, my Sunshine, my Joy
He’s my Hope, my Sorrow, my Pain
My Hunger, my Thirst, my Shame
He’s my Life, my Cloud, my Fame
My Moon, my Star, my Rain
He’s my Silence, my Comfort, my Fear
He Soothes, he Pampers and dries my Tears
He’s my in, my Out, to Have and to Hold
My Protector and the Guardian of my Soul
He’s Red, he’s Brown, He’s Purple and Blue
Blameless, Spotless, He’s oh so true
These are the Clues
To the Colour of
I open my eyes, there it is, and it's so beautifully real, I cannot process my thoughts. Wonderful blue glistening seas, yellowy-gold sand sparkling on the to-good-to-be-true seashore, people just lying down to relax. It makes it almost impossible to believe that I have survived seventeen years without seeing this once in my life.