the sun - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
After the blackness of night, Earth's star rises on the horizon, spreading her gold in every direction. She comes in the way that natural forces do, needing not invitation yet feeling her welcome. The light is her gift, bold and free, for anyone who cares to open their eyes in the dawn and watch the world awake. This is our sun, a fire ignited to bring warmth to creation and inspire us to seek our own beauty within.
I know the sun is a star, I'd just never felt it before. There is such a difference between knowing and feeling. I was in the pine forests, high up the mountainside when the sun was setting. My mind was on getting home; the forests are so enchanting in the light, yet not so much in the blackness. That's when it happened, right after crossing the stream that falls over the rocks, a mini-waterfall I guess. The sun was maybe a third of the way down the pines and dead ahead, shining through the light fog in a way that gave it a myriad of sepia tones. The shafts shone to the right and left from that one focal point that for the most part was hidden. My feet stopped and my eyes opened wider than they had been for the past hours. Like a child, my hands reached up as if they could bathe in the light. The golden beams were radiating all around just like rays from the heavenly bodies we adore after nightfall - yet it was our star, our sun.
There was nothing I loved more than those hot summer evenings when we would sit on the street and let the sun beat down on our skin. We could feel the tropic, sticky air with each inhalation; the air so thick you could cut through it. I liked the way that, as small gusts of wind blew past me, my skin would softly shiver before returning to its still, warmed state. It made me sleepy, like a silent lullaby of the sun was discreetly blowing my mind out of consciousness. I miss those days together. Those days we spent; just you, me and the sun.
It is New Year's day. The sun finally shines above the sky after dreadful clouds covering it for weeks. It seems to have had a gorgeous makeover while hiding behind in its private room. The yolk looking sun has turned from yellowish brown to golden. Everyone is coming out and enjoying the warm and beautiful day, feeling the gentle heat. We celebrate the new year and appreciate the sun - giving us this boost of energy to start anew.
The sun poured out it's brilliant hot oranges and reds into the horizon like a pot of molten lava.
The sun hangs so impossibly in the smoky sky- a perfect circle without strings or supports. Sometimes I imagine it to be a cut-out, that it is in reality a wall of fire behind the heavens. I know it isn't, I paid enough attention in science class to know that it is a fiery sphere, a yellow dwarf star, in the centre of our solar system. But from this grassy hill just outside Telanara City, it looks two dimensional and no further away than the mountains.
The same sun that sent new green leaves bursting from blackened buds now turns the wands of knee high grasses golden. These spindles of plants shooting through the sidewalk cracks are enough to tell the children that summer is drawing to a close, waning along with the hours of daylight. This long awaited for vacation, this echo of a bygone era when the young were needed to bring in the harvest, has only days left. Only now there is no more labour in yellow fields, the closest the kids come to it is sitting on the crumbling concrete walls pulling off the swollen seeds.
The sun that was orange only an hour ago, shining warmly upon the night-chilled soil has become a yellow inferno. There is no more softness to the world, no more hint of the night as it ebbs away. Now there is only the day and the heart that rains down is building as surely as that in my stove once the kindling is added. The sun is the fire and until nightfall my home will be the coolest place to be, set deep in the earth, taking the refrigeration of the soil. Out here everything will cook. So for these heady summer months I will be out in dawn and dusk, the only times with enough rays to see and not enough to burn.
I can no more change Tyler's mind than I can persuade the dawn not to come. In less than an hour the world will be unveiled from the blanket of the night and he will set forth into the badlands. I have rehearsed our parting every minute of the night, but I don't know what to say. Speaking with him is so pointless right now.
The sun is our marker of time. We have no means to measure the day other than by its rhythmic rise and fall. In this new world without clocks, without electronics, without money, it is all we have to show the passing of the day. The sun right above is still noon, the other markers are dawn and sunset. We know of course that those times move with the seasons, but they are the only practical way by which to organize ourselves.
I watched the scintillating sun, and the wonders the invisible fairies had done to the sky. Spraying it with strawberry jam with a hint of blueberry too. Like paint balls they had thrown millions of orange egg yolks to create this marvellous beauty which compels me to forget my crestfallen state.
The sun was bright and early.Its rays, like fingers stretching across the darkened sky, bring with it a new day. Gradually, the sun fills the sky with its brilliance and a warm glow.
The sun set threatening to dip behind the horizon, firstly cascading a prim bombardment of colours that were flung over the sky with terrible alacrity. The receding blue and oranges battled the blackness pushing it away with arms. It shone on the lake below shining its deep depths. The radiant glow scintillated and beamed: the legacy of the sun. The sun omniscient omnipotent left hanging in the crisp air it floated downwards like a deflated balloon.
The fiery ball of light rising from the horizon, colored the sky in shades of orange and yellow.
The sun was a cruel mistress that day, beating down on them in her relentless way.
The morning sun lay in the sky like a perfect, unspoiled egg yolk.
Far out in the uncharted backwaters of the unfashionable end of the western spiral arm of the Galaxy lies a small unregarded yellow sun.
Gone are the days of wintry light kissing coldly upon my face, in those blustery days the great golden orb above was friendly. When uncovered by snow or sleet laden cloud it gave colour to the day, finding any glint of greenness left in the world. When spring came its brilliant rays shone not just brightly, but with a touch of warmth, a promise of the growing seasons to come. Now in the heady heat of August, we walk on the tinder of the forest floor, dreading the moment we must leave its dense protective canopy and walk the last mile beneath the unrelenting sun. The world is painted vivid by its rays, like a new painting with still wet oils. No longer is it gently warming our bodies, bringing life back to cold muscles; now it burns unprotected skin in minutes. After the light clothing of June and July the full body smocks and hats are unwelcome, but preferable to redness and pain. In this long month the sun does not bring smiles, instead we march on, head-bowed under it's angry glare.
The flecks of golden sunshine mingled with the few wispy clouds in the sky. The azure sea overhead showed no signs of rain. It was the perfect weather for <insert activity>.
The sun rises. The sun sets. We just tend to complicate the process.
When she opened her eyes all she saw was the cloudless blue sky and the golden sun radiating down on her tanned skin.