warmth - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
After so long without it I am surprised by the warmth in the sun's rays. No longer does it leach my heat but instead it gives to me. Once more my breaths are quite invisible and the birds are more active in the sky. Still cloud lingers but today it is not a dense layer of grey but instead a chaotic array of white puffy shapes amid the blue. I stretch out my hands and tilt my face upward. This sun is not enough to burn - even for me - and whilst it has the first lick of summer about itI put that out of my mind. Savouring the moment is important, tomorrow isn't guaranteed to anyone, not even me.
I cradle the soup with two hands and let the warmth of the mug defrost my fingers. Hot food is a luxury I don't often indulge in, but life can't be all cold canned soup. The air is thick with the scent of coffee and although I drink in the aroma like everyone else I will never hand over my wares for it. In this clay mug is meat, vegetables, even seasoning, those mugs hold only bitterness and caffeine - yesterdays drug of choice. Without milk or sugar it must be beyond unpleasant, yet a line forms early at the stall and persists until the beans have run out. Even then some linger in the hopes of more to come...Interestingly there's not a person under twenty-five in the line up. Mostly they are middle aged with some lingering body fat. Perhaps these are customers for my candy trades. As my hands are rejuvenated by the soup, heat radiating as far as the cuffs of my jacket, I study them. Who has things I need, who looks well equipped? I sip and analyze, my favourite activity by far.
The fire crackled and popped. Each scarlet flame radiated heat. Sapphira drew the snug quilt around her body. It was the perfect day to curl up and read a book, but not before she slept in for a while. The frigid cold couldn’t penetrate the barrier of wool and fabric. The air was rather dusty, making Sapphira’s nose itch. She inhaled sharply before letting out a sneeze. Her eyes fluttered open. 'This is not the palace.' The patch-work quilt was worn and the room she lay down in was small. One wall was stone and the other walls were made of creaking wooden panels. A stone fireplace was before her, blazing and crackling. The bed she was on was small and creaky.
The warmth from Saskia's body abandoned her as quickly as the world had gotten old and everyone on earth had vanished. From the decay and dust she had been gone decades, but only hours ago she'd been teasing her father at the breakfast table. Even in the summer heat she shivered. The sun's rays were cold and the brilliant noon-hour was as dark to her as any night. It occurred to her that it must be a nightmare, perhaps she ought just to play along. Or maybe if she refused to the world would right itself. She thought hard of pink ponies trotting down the lane but none came. Then she took a run across the garden and jumped in an attempt to fly, she thumped onto the baked hard ground and began to cry - not because it hurt, but because there was a chance all this was real.
From deep inside my chest, through every cell of my body, the warmth welcomed me like an old friend. But it was strange, because I never felt that way before. It kinda scared me, you know? Feeling the cold slowly leaving my heart... All my life everything I once loved or cared about always fucked up and broke me, tearing apart my soul bit by bit. But that time... That only time I felt like everything in my little tiny universe was right for the first time.
Who would have known that I would have to miss it someday? I flew too close into the sun, and the warmth burned my wings and made me hit the ground so hard sometimes I can't even breathe.
The room was not really cold, for the summer sun so soaks into these thick old buildings, that it takes a month or two of winter to soak it out.
Even on the deepest of winter days I feel your warmth like an old duffle coat, friendly and soft. All you need to do is be with me, my love. Just be with me. I love you like the last frost of winter, I love you like the fist nip of cold after summer. Does that make sense to you? It does to me, because with you, my love, every season is the one I love best.