asmrwriting

[asmrwriting]

cinemagraph artist: kitchenghosts

[asmrwriting]

[asmrwriting]

[asmrwriting]

(via Asa & Alex | Rustic Picnic Wedding in California | Snippet & Ink)

[asmrwriting]

It is the dog days of summer. The air is hot and heavy with the low drone of insects buzzing. The late afternoon sun beats onto the rocky inlet, sparkling off the water and bathing the swimmers in a toasty glow. There isn’t a breath of wind, and the water laps gently at the pebble beach. Sounds seem to travel far when the air is heavy like this and you can hear the children splashing and playing in the water. Far down the beach, a shaggy yellow dog barks and seagulls cry out to each other as they scatter from the dogs path. 

You prop yourself up on your towel and look out at the glittering blue sea. The sun is hanging low in the sky now and dinner will be ready soon. TIme for a last dip before cycling back to the cottage. Taking off your hat and sunglasses you walk slowly down to the water’s edge. The hot pebbles burn your feet a little  and you are thankful for the sudden cool wash of the sea water. Up close the sea is blue-green and crystal clear. As you wade out further the water is soft and chilly against your sunwarmed skin. Taking a deep breath, you dive under and feel the refreshing coolness completely envelop you. Leaning back in the salty water you float effortlessly, bobbing up and down with the gentle pulse of rolling waves. It is late August and fall will soon be upon us. The summer is nearly over...but not yet. Not yet. 

Laurence Le Guay, Ahe, Tuamotu, 1970s

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Anna in window

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Grasses in the wind.

[asmrwriting]

Sunday Morning at the Thatched Cottage

The beam of honey sunlight that has been warming your nose finally wakes you up. Outside your bedroom window you hear the birds assembling in their morning chorus. Opening your eyes one at a time, you pull the warm sheets a little tighter around your chin.  A small calico cat snoozes gently at the foot of the bed. She feels you stir and stretches her furry limbs, curling and uncurling her delicate white paws. She yawns and settles back into her morning nap. Today is Sunday and you can wake up slowly as you like. Cozy in your soft bed, you stare quietly at the burled oak beams of the cottage ceiling.  Little flecks of illuminated dust float softly through the tiny bedroom, lending an enchanted quality to the early morning light.

The summer sun heats the roof and sides of the little cottage and you inhale the soft, earthy smell of warm thatch and wood. Your bedroom door is a shade of butter yellow, the paint worn a bit around the handle from generations of loving use. It sits slightly open and you can hear the faint jangling of pots and pans, the whisper of morning radio and the low hum of the kettle. The faint smell of hot coffee and warm bread begins to waft up the stairwell and into your little room. You can hear plates and mugs being set out onto the table. You stretch your limbs long against the soft, clean sheets and take a final yawn. Time to get up.