[ WP ] You 're a composer with synesthesia . Describe your works without using sound .

Dark blue ebbs smoothly back and forth in your mind. Here and firm, away and soft. 
 
 Blue, blue. Blue, blue. 
 
 Over the blue, a curl of summer breeze passes by, and you smell baking bread. 
 
 The blue is here, the blue is away. 
 
 The breeze picks up and ruffles your hair, sharp lemon, with a twist of sweet. 
 
 A friend claps a hand on your shoulder. A bright rose blooms in the garden. Heat from the sun. 
 
 The straw thatch on the roof, and the scent of hay carried by the breeze. 
 
 The blue, the blue, the blue... 
 
 The wind has gone dry. It wears at your face, abrasive and heat and a long, long journey. 
 
 You see the sun sink beyond the dunes, orange and dull, and the night is cold. 
 
 The blue is gone, and your lips are cracked. You shiver. 
 
 Daylight is a distant dream. Heavy weights in your knapsack, and your aching shoulders. 
 
 Emptiness. 
 
 Slowly, carefully, the blue is back, but paler now. It's thin and wispy, and it dances across your brow. 
 
 The blue, the blue - soft as butterflies' wings on your eyelids. 
 
 Digging into cool sand with your fingers, fine and smooth and satisfying. An hourglass streaming from your lifted hand. 
 
 Methodical, meditative, polished round stones. 
 
 Dark blue again, and the night breeze on your neck. 
 
 Starlight. 
 
 The curious blue as you rise to your feet, compressing cool sand. 
 
 You walk, you walk, the journey goes. Blue and cool and air in your lungs. 
 
 The city emerges from the horizon. Soft dawn, taupe and sunrise blush. 
 
 Blue nudges at your elbows. Blue, and the warming breeze. 
 
 The familiar outline of stones on the path. 
 
 The smell of baking bread, the scent of roses. 
 
 Blue, blue... 
 
 You are home. 
 
 You are home. 
 

