road - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Blacktop flowed as if it had welled up from earth's core, forming an onyx river, absorbing newborn sunny rays.
The road was a smooth black river, the sort wheels float so effortlessly along. And so as our car made its steady way along, the scenery took on an almost meditative quality, the light igniting the hues of each tree and home.
The road don't rise and the road don't sink, it's me that does the walking. Every day it's right there and I can ride it anywhere or sit here on this curb. It can be so hot come summertime, yet in truth it's simply giving back what went in, finding balance as the dawn approaches, ready for each new day. I see the places we did hopscotch as kids, throwing down them stones, leaping in time to our rhymes. I see the road in the right here and now, these shoes feeling how the it pushes back softly, always supporting, never asking. And in that moment I hear it calling with it's sweet song of other places, all of them connected by the breathing land that runs under that tarmac, under oceans and mountains. That's how I know I've gotta go, go with the road, take her curves and junctions, pause at the red, go at the green.
I had often thought of the village road as going to the city, yet in truth, each part of it is still. Perhaps like time, it is only one moment ever present and not going forward or back. The road is the road, it's me that imagines the purpose, the reason for the tarmac over the land. Maybe that's how it should be, the choice and purpose my own.
The road had lain over the earth for as long as anyone could remember. It had been so many years since the age of the car that they had been left for nature to reclaim in her own good time - and she had started in earnest. In the weathered cracks was gathered new soil, enough to tempt seeds to grow. Their roots grew in, their leaves a bright green over the grey, and the land began to breathe once more, healing the scars of old.
Amid the infinitely greened hills, the rolling verdant hues that flow into gold, is the road. As a child I would imagine that though I can see only one, that in truth the road may take me anywhere I dream. So long as I move onward, travel over any rough ground, the end of that road, and the country that is its company a long the way, is ever more brilliant.
The road stretches onward, hugging the land, taking each turn in easy stride. It is a grey that has welcomed many suns, become silvery as it soaked in the rays. I let my eyes run over each hue, seeing imperfections for the first time, yet feeling that as details created by an artistic hand, they render it all the more beautiful.
There is a road for those who still use cars, yet since the changes hardly anyone needs a path so wide. These days the paths meander through the greenery, enough for passing bicycles or a horse. Those going further ride the train or fly in the electric heli-cars. Today our road is the site of the festival, one of the many we have. The compressed plastic modules are far brighter than the tarmac used to be, always perfectly flat. Our town asked for a rainbow road because we could, the town over has one that looks like yellow bricks. It's mad to think that these used to be everywhere, carving up the land, but that was the industrial era, when hedonism had almost wiped out culture and the exuberance of living.
The road is midnight under the cloud, yet beyond is the dawn. As the sun sets, its rising is already promised to the land, to the green shoots who wait in faith. And so, even though our eyes may only see one step at a time, we stride on, eyes wide. For when this passes we will be as children, giggling at the imagined monsters that once kept us in such fear.