color [Theme] Page 1

Everyone has their own autumn. Mine, kissing the leaves tired of summer, walks somewhere else in the mountains. Unhurried October and at the same time so busy. There is coolness and wise thoughts in the air. And in the eyes there is already a slightly different shade, not the same light blue, but slightly gray, with gilding. With a slight sadness, with a smile on his lips. And even if you feel a little dreary in autumn, you love this melancholy in your own way. You feel comfortable with her because it won't be long before the first white duvets on earth. And you stand and look at the long silver stripes of rain on the window, warming yourself in the arms of a warm vanilla-colored sweater, like a scoop of ice cream for a pie, put the kettle on the fire, and its noise brings you back to reality. Brew fragrant tea, read “Five quarters of an orange”, wrap yourself in a cloud of your favorite perfume and walk endlessly, soaking up the subtle beauty of nature, and in the evening, wrapped in a blanket, with a cup of hot chocolate and homemade cookies, watch your favorite cozy movies. Delicious autumn. Soulful. How I missed her!

There is black. There is white. Two of my favorite colors. Yes. Black absolute, velvet black, to the very bottom. White - depth, infinity, where the soul lives. This is how my world is divided. I tried in the middle and it didn't work. There are people who give, there are people who take. With some you flow, fill up and inspire you. With others, you may stay only a short time and come out devastated. There are people - the whole world, I want to dive there and catch their wave, touch it lightly so as not to disturb anything, look deep, get drunk on them, hug them to the very heart, give them a lot, and they will always give in return, without hesitation, without expecting anything, and soar further. Happy to meet such people and go with them through life.

A ray of sun against a blue sky and even a rainbow of colors will never turn blue!

On your face.

In all sorts of psychological publics it is written that if a woman puts on red, then she wants attention, she wants seduction. Here I know what I'm talking about. I have two red jackets and two red coats. As you can imagine, I am more active in winter.

FREEDOM. What is yours? What taste, smell, what color? Absolute or on holidays? Or maybe just pushed to the farthest corner of consciousness, closed behind seven locks, but rushing out and flapping its wings in a cramped space? For me, inner freedom is a state. It's not me

The last warm days, and soon summer will leave with a light silk sigh of a dress hidden in a winter closet, a wave of golden wheat-colored eyelashes, a train of all collected flower bouquets.

Love suffering should have been bright, multi-colored, but in his small workshop there were threads entirely of one color - pure white.

... history is repainted in other colors only with blood.

And let it rain outside the window and a terrible mood, a lot of changes, like a downpour on your head, and life's problems, put on a dress of the color of an azure dream and go! Life is amazingly woven from strange things that you are no longer able to influence. She tests you for strength and makes you stronger, gives you kicks in the ass and slaps on the cheeks. To appreciate it more later. And love.

Always... Always, in order to feel beautiful, a woman needs to bloom. When she is unbearably tired and emotionally devastated, words of encouragement and tender hugs become scarlet roses. When she believes and is inspired, words of admiration become orchids. When she promises - cornflowers. When he flirts and laughs, like a child - daisies. When she first falls in love, the words of love become a fragile sky-colored hydrangea. Say these words, let us always bloom.

Summer with the smell of strawberries on the palms, warm silver rains, armfuls of wild flowers and bright nights. The month of June dresses either in an outfit of the color of forget-me-nots, or in red dresses of wild clover, coquettishly pinning a white chamomile in her hair ...

Penetrating light, thin rainy fingers, light pollen of the wind on the wet cheek of your window, a handful of flowers, a bouquet of flowers, a sea of colors and an amazing box of green sounds. Narrow silk paths, a weightless web of dreams on bare feet, a canvas of caring voices around, faith in summer, in the true and the forgotten. Belief in becoming, in what has happened, in the embodied. The grateful echo is relentless, insatiable and endless. Fragrant juicy breakfasts on the wooden floor, sunny croutons, tea in the palms, petals of seasonal showers in the hair, there are always rays in the heart. Summer...

It became clear that this was not a given at all.