[One]
Light
He glances out of the blinds that hang over his windows, staring out at sunlight and the city streets. Shadows are cast from trees and buildings as cars roll by, drivers passing without a glance in his direction. His fingers slip from the plastic strips and he steps away from the window, glancing around the small room with a pleased smile.
It's a beautiful day today. His room is warm comforting with a bookshelf nailed to the wall above his bed. There's a couch just next to it with a coffee table, assorted books and journals lying about on its smooth, wooden surface. There's a tea pot sitting on top of a tiny little stove in the corner of the room, an equally small refrigerator beside it. His teacup sits on top of the fridge and he smiles to himself again.
Such a beautiful day, he thinks to himself as he crosses to the stove. The teapot is filled with fresh water from earlier this morning and he flicks the switch on the small stove. The glass plate of the stove top glows a soft red beneath the teapot, and he waits patiently for the water to come to a boil as he rifles through a basket containing dozens of types of tea bags. He plucks one from the bottom, tearing the package before letting the tea bag rest at the bottom of his cup, the string wound around the handle.
The teapot whistles quietly and he lifts it from the stove, pouring steaming water into his cup before setting it back down on the stove. He flicks the switch to turn it off before taking his teacup into hand, returning to the opposite side of the room where the couch and his books are. He sets the cup down onto the coffee table before plopping down into the cushions, his feet kicked up on the arm.
He grabs at an open journal on the table, pulling the pen from the binding before flipping to a clean page. On days like this, beautiful days, he's almost always inspired to write. Sometimes he writes little stories, adventures out in the open wild. Sometimes he writes letters to no one at all. Other times he writes song lyrics and poems. Those he writes the most, though. He's not sure why, but he does.
Pressing the tip of the pen to his paper, he begins to write. Simple yet elegant scrawl form letters and words and he hums softly to himself as his hand pours the lyrics of another song from his heart and mouth. He watches the swirls and curves of his handwriting, softly singing the words as they're written, like his mouth and hand are connected to one another.
He continues to sing and write, only stopping for brief moments to drink his tea from time to time or to glance out the windows again at the beautiful view of the city and the mountains in the background. There's a quiet peace in the room, and he reaches over to grab a small, thin, metallic remote from the coffee table, pressing a large green button. Instantly, soft instrumental music plays from the speakers built into the walls on either side of the massive mirror.
He listens to the intricate beauty as he scribbles a few last words before looking up towards the mirror. It covers the entirety of the opposite wall, the sunlight bouncing back at him through it. He stares at his own reflection; disheveled but pleasing dark brown hair with soft blond tips. A comfortably loose white cap-sleeved shirt with a green knit sweater over it, pulled open at the front. Well-worn and comfortable black jeans and his white socks.
He lifts his gaze to his face. A decent tan complexion, smooth cheeks and a strong jaw line. He smiles a little, watching his freckled lips pull wide, the dimples of his cheeks sinking in a little. He's not vain, but he does appreciate his own beauty. Then again, he appreciates beauty in all circumstances and forms. His own is just another mark added to the list.
He meets his own eyes, staring into deep, ocean blue irises. It's never really been a pressing thought for him, but he has wondered on occasion how his eyes are so electrifyingly blue. He always assumed that they'd be a little duller, a little darker. But no. They're bright. Crisp. Like the waters of some vast, deep, clean and sunlit ocean in the middle of nowhere. He's seen pictures of such oceans and that's the closest comparison.
He blinks, and those blue eyes are gone, replaced by his own face, slightly paler, slightly darker hair, and burning gold eyes. He shivers and drinks his tea again. It's a beautiful day on his side.