morning - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
In the wash of the new light, your face takes on the appearance of an old photograph, one of nostalgia, so beautiful. I watch as it brings your skin into focus, not yet animated with the warmth of who you are, for you are still in the land of dreams. And since there is no better thing to do but to bring my body so close that our hearts synchronise, I'll hug you till you wake, when the light is so strong that you come into the present with me, eyes open.
The curtains add an orange glow to the morning light, every morning a perfect sunrise. It reminds Haydon of of the times he slept in a beach hut, watching the ocean emerge under the golden shimmer. For a moment his mind conjures the rhythmic waves, soft on the sandy shore and feels his heart beat to the same slow pace. He breaths in deeply. A new day has begun. He reaches his had out to the fabric, noticing how up close the light pours through every open space between fibres, no different from how it once came through the beach-hut walls, illuminating like brilliant fire-flies each dawn. The material is warm beneath his fingers, and when the sun floods the room, painting the colours anew, he feels a little of those golden rays soak into his skin.
Sunlight shines under the door like a ghoul's grin, yet gives the shutters a halo of golden rays. That's the new morning, sinner and saint, just like me. Waking is a hammer swung with gusto, a painted "x" on my skull. Sleep drags me backward until a new thought can penetrate - I have the chance to achieve more than yesterday if I move now. The bed is warm, the draughts are cold, yet my feet swing outward into the chill...
Soon after the vibrant summer rays have begun to warm the day there is a shrill sound, a whistle, and my mother leaps out of bed faster than a rat from a trap. It is the milkman, and if she's not fast that line-up will snake around the compound leaving her with an empty can after her long wait. But after a brief fit-full doze I know that this morning will go according to schedule, there is the reassuring sound of clanking pots and the smell of grain stewed in milk.
I've been waiting for the morning for so long that I barely believe my eyes when the sharp shadows cast by the street-lamps through my metallic blinds start to fade, diluted by the onset of daylight. Then a chorus of birds breaks the drone of the city traffic. I know it's too early to be up, but I've waited for this day for so long. I've trained for it for twelve long years and now it's here. Once the kitchen light is on the garden beyond is nothing but dark. I resolve to sit with a latte and wait for the rays to kiss the plants, returning their virescent hues and ushering in the new day.
The morning fades in like a scene from bad theatre production. The cast stomp about, slam doors and project their voices as far as their lips, then sulk because no-one replied. It would be funny if this same play wasn't repeated every morning at 7 am. But it does, an I have a bit-part to play with no lines. All I need to do is nod, eat, pack my bag, grab a lunch and leave for the bus. No smiling required.
The morning is as assured as the tides and just as unstoppable. I need a few more hours of blackness. Not to sleep, but to prepare, to pour my thoughts out onto a page, reorganize, prioritize and pack them back in again. But already I can see the chaos that is my room, the dark ragged outline of the dirty clothes on my dresser and the tall lamp I always trip over in the dark. Soon there will be colour and traffic noises, the smell of other residents making coffee and toast, the keeper knocking on the door to turn us out to our meaningless jobs that keep us fed and sheltered in this hole. But today I break free. Today there is a plan and I can't afford to mess it up. My script lies cold at the foot of the thin blanket not feeling the weight of destiny or the immense burden of my expectations. It has taken so long to craft, I have lived the story for three long years, now Tarantino is in town. At first I'll be nice, but if I have to go all "Reservoir dogs" on his ass I have my kit ready.
This morning wasn’t gray, but by soothing lavender and brilliant amber. The colors merged into neon pink and peach. She wakened early each morning in the stronghold to watch the sunrise. After all, she could only see so many.
The lines of glares that shot for my eyelids awaked me.
Twilight melted away, majestic sunrise, red orange glow seeping over the horizon as if the light itself was being poured from a molten sun. Powerful rays flood over the landscape lighting every blade of grass, shining from each leaf.
The air was very clear and the long morning shadows distinct.
The sun filtered through the clouds, signalling the end of the rain.
It was a grey, slow morning.
Early morning mist beginning to clear, dew laden grass and cobwebs, sun rises casting orange and pink onto a thin layer of cloud, birds sing, dawn chorus, animals stir.
"Rhetorical questions at this time of night, Donny? I think it's me talking, not the whisky. We'll know better in the sober light of morning, won't we?"
Under the gentle spring sun its rays warm my skin - like kisses from the divine. The nascent leaves have that soft green and the ground is scattered with vivid blooms whose petals dance in the breeze. I love spring. I could drink it up like a tonic. Instead I spread my fingers wide and fan them though the damp air - like I did when I was a kid trying to fly, only now it's just something that makes me smirk. Birds above flit from branch to branch, letting out their sweet melody. If this day was beautiful restaurant dish it would be a fresh salad with feta cheese and olives. If it was a drink it would be a chilled glass of white wine. But I prefer to think of it as music, and so with each step I hear the Beetles "All you need is love, love, love is all you need..."
The newspaper lies on the table, curled and with teeth marks from the dog. Jasper looks down at it like it's week old pasta, his mouth scrunched and eyebrows arched. Then with a “pock, pock” noise that he makes with his lips, he moves on to the kitchen to brew coffee. There was nothing right with chewed up news, just thinking about it made his fingers curl. Now the spit was on the table too, he winced until the familiar aroma met his nostrils. Now that was more like it, perfect Arabica bean and cream. One oven heated danish and he was ready to start his day. But perhaps he'd go out the back way, just seeing what was left of his paper would set him on edge again and that would never do. Not at all.
The sun shone brilliantly and the water in the pond glittered invitingly
Metallic clatter of pots and pans, splutter of water from the bathroom faucet, aroma of pancakes wafting up the stairs, sound of son rustling in his lego basket, dog still curled up on his cushion next to the bed.
Pitch dark, first sounds nibbling at the edge of stillness, tranquil hour, dew-drenched grass, early light, metal mail slot bangs, morning newspaper hits mat, morning ritual, peace of dawn reluctantly making way for a frenetic new day.
The olive leaves were buttered lemony yellow as the sun rose yet again, and the robin ruffled feathers as if pleased by the dawn.