Painting the Night Sky with Colours

Today’s Daily Post prompt inspired me to reflect upon two awesome details I found within the last week: the song of a guitarist at the Saturday market and an instance where I stared up at the sunset-drawn sky, unintentionally. I didn’t know, at that time, they would be inspiring for the following story. However, I suppose that even the tiniest things provide a world full of inspiration.

Due to the unusual structure, I’ll try and explain it here:

  • 1st paragraph: One detail (the music)
  • 2nd paragraph: Another detail (the sunset)
  • 3rd paragraph: A mixture of the two details, creating a “paragraph story.”

I hope you enjoy it. 🙂


The strum of a guitar plays in the background, a fair distance from where I stand. Like the Pied Piper of Hamilton, I follow the music with my ears, against all the clashing interference from children’s laughter, the sound of relentless bargaining and the smell of fresh fish, waiting to be purchased. Although they claim this is a Saturday market, it should be held everyday. I end up bustling through the crowd, fumbling the occasional, “Excuse me” and “Sorry” to follow the music. Although I’m blessed with the ability to see, I have never felt so blind, following wispy notes that hang in the air. This is blindness at its fineness. When I finally reach the player, a middle-aged man with a stubble and a hat, I watch his fingers glide effortlessly through the strings. They prance up and down the guitar like dancers, and his eyes furrow in concentration, lost in his own world. On the guitar-case, welcoming any loose change, is a sign –and I quote– “Every dollar kills a fan of Justin Bieber’s.” I laugh, without intending to. The words themselves are cruel and mocking, if not a little insensitive, but the amount of money he receives in comparison to all the other musicians, is the difference between night and day. Next to him are his music CDs; I scribble down his name down before returning. This won’t be the last time I hear this song, flitting through the air as naturally as smoke.

Mixing like paint on a pallet, the sunset spreads throughout the pre-evening sky. Various colours of different shades and textures light up, enigmatic but somehow complementary, a bucket of rainbow fairy floss. The soft curve of the clouds are visible, even underneath all that colour; their outlines never once leave the sky, a stable presence in an ever-changing world. They are the remnants of warm summer days, drinking cold milk and fruit icy poles, lying underneath the air-conditioner with an ongoing presence of intense heat. Throughout my entire life, of changing textbooks and schools, I haven’t lost summer. And, just like that, the sunset disappears for the time-being, replaced with the night. With the glistening stars and crescent moon, the darkness welcoming a substantial amount of imagination, the sunset, in my own mind, hasn’t yet faded; it returns brighter every-time I close my eyes.

Before he became a musician, his life consisted of colours and brush-strokes. He sits at the window, gazing out at the open skies, wishing the colour on his pallet would somehow transfer on the easel. The summer heat cannot be drowned with the air-conditioning, running in the background with a constant low hum. His father bought him that air-conditioner, just like everything else in his life. Every dream he carried was a sinking ship, one that floated comfortably for a moment, before he realised it wasn’t his. Guilt clutches at his heart; he was being selfish. Perhaps being a painter was what his mother always wanted, but he convinced himself this was also his dream. Becoming a lawyer, his father’s plans, fell apart when he dropped out in the second year of university. It took him a whole year to realise the path was black-and-white, bitter and full of struggles and hardships. Like the changing sky outside, his life is inconsistent. Next to him is a guitar, one he hadn’t played in days, but somehow comforting to have around. He picks it up with nimble fingers, strumming on the chords, letting the pain of his left hand adjust. The strings dig into his fingers, but the pain isn’t as bad as he remembered. Singing in a off-key voice with a song his sister showed him, he found his hands shifted through the neck with ease. As darkness fell, he eyed the guitar with a new sort of revelation. This was his own dream, nobody else’s. The next time he looks up at the sky, although it’s nothing but darkness with a hint of light, he sees more colour than the sunsets. Hope is the crescent moon in the corner of the sky, and the engraved stars, infinite in the sky, seem to smile down at him.



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8 thoughts on “Painting the Night Sky with Colours

  1. Pingback: Weekly Writing Challenge – Collecting Details | Joe's Musings

  2. Pingback: Colours | hands in the garden

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