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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1722823
Rated: E · Short Story · Emotional · #1722823
It's just me, writing about the day. Albeit in a rather poetic way.
The light streaming through the window was bright and golden, quite deceptively. For it was early November, and that light that brought a golden glow to the room was hiding the truth of how chilly it was outside on this Sunday afternoon. The fact that I had my ceiling fan on certainly didn't help. Never the less, the light brought an almost tangible warmth to me. Where the light shone through the blinds, it created lines of blurry bright dots of sunlight on the wooden floor. I lay on the bed, listening to the creaking of the ceiling fan, half-covered with a blanket that someone had made for me. I thought about how I had once wanted so badly to repaint the walls of the room to something other than their bland off-white. Perhaps red. Perhaps black. But now I thought of how doing that may stop the golden sunlight from flooding my room so. This was always my favorite part of the day, when most of the light in the room came from the celestial body that seemed to live just outside my window. It was so natural. No need for light bulbs, or lamps. Just my giant candle in the sky, lighting the room for me. So for now i would not paint the walls.
© Copyright 2010 Freeman Smith (oreilly_j2 at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1722823