Someone asked me what my favorite color was recently. Its something I've thought about, actually. I don't remember what I told them, in all honesty.
In the corner of east Hartford Connecticut, there's an old church, mostly brick with tall steeple covered in off white siding. There's a basement, just around the entrance and down a short flight of steps. Really, just a hallway with a series of rooms off to each side.
The largest of these is a long rectangle, stacked high with bookshelves holding dusty volumes of varying books. The variation in shape and size makes the old lacquered shelves look disorganized, and the little dust drifts built up in the corners where the books meet the sides only add to the effect.
There's dust in the air, and you can see it swirling in the sunbeams that break through the two small windows nestled in just below the ceiling. It settles and swirls along cheap plastic tables, the tops of which are scarred and faded from years of use and disuse. Along the back there stand a few armchairs, big cushioned things with bits of stuffing sticking out from worn seams.
I used to sit in them, and think. I hated church, or, at least I had convinced myself I did. But sometimes, being alone on a cloudy day, surrounded by the years of earnest caring that had seeped into the walls, and the trashy furniture...
Even the cheap, commercial bullshit scattered here and there had gained some level of sentimental value, just by soaking in the atmosphere for so long.
And, I can remember tracing the sunbeams on cold quiet Saturdays
A mess of orange shag that had been worn to the thread, stretched over concrete, thin enough that the cold would bleed up from below and mix into the foot of air above the ground.
It was hideous, but no matter what, I can't stop thinking about that color. Dull and lifeless, but still able to catch the last rays of sun in a way I still can't describe.
This is a first draft, and I'm not going to reread this to fix anything