daydreams - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
In my daydream was at first a pure black canvas, yet it turned into a rich earth tunnel; far away in the distance was a green light. Every other time there had been none, yet now it was there, bright and clear.
The couch was a fabric the hue of buoyant sea waves and I sat there as prim as any sailing boat on a fine day. Upon those rolling cushions the birdsong became my lullaby. As each moment became the next sweet daydreams began from the joy of doing nothing, and then I was swimming with the rainbow fish of the deep, feeling the rhythm of a new body with fins.
All of the noise disappeared in an instant. It was like being stuck between two realities: one that was imperfect, but doable. The other the vision where she pictured herself in, the one she longed herself to be a part of. Was is a possibility to make that world into reality? The only thing that separated her from achieving the dream was herself.
To Oscar the world of trigonometry and grammar lessons were like being on a planet with little gravity. Just the slightest nudge from his imagination and he was soaring amongst the clouds, off into a world of fantasy. His daydreams were almost as wild as his night dreams, his creativity seamlessly sewing together different aspects of his subconscious. The party in his brain was wild enough to make even Monty Python seam bland and predictable. Were he ever to harness it, to write it down, he would be hailed as a creative genius. But for now he was that irritating kid who daydreamed and never got his work done. He sometimes wished he could offer the others a window into his mind, then they would be able to join him in his flights of the fanciful and the ridiculous.
Just twenty miles north of the castle is a metropolis of metal and glass, concrete and asphalt. The people mill about, measuring their lives to the second, absorbed in salacious gossip and politics. But within the castle perimeter it is nonsense to measure time that way. The smallest division here is the rising and setting of the sun, the appearing and vanishing of the mighty battlements from the naked eye.
With my back to the stone, the roughness pressing into my skin, my daydreams are picture perfect - from low-res to high definition without the use of the recreational chemicals my friends imbibe nightly. History lives here with the ghouls and ghosts. Under the slivers of moonlight I've seen phantoms pass by, never once acknowledging my presence. But perhaps they are locked in another time, visible but somehow dislocated from the here and now. I'd rather be in these ancient walls, imagining, fantasizing, building “castles in the air” than sitting safely in smog. Haunted places are my sanctuary. How can I be scared of the dead when the living are so volatile?
He held her hand, tightly and comfortably.
Imagining if she'd left, how come his life would be?
Maybe.. maybe the smiles will disappear.
Marking the sorrow, amounted with a tear.
Maybe every clear memoirs will be now seen as a blur,
For the floodgates of tears will open again,
And the sadness will occur that he wished that would never happen.