As kind as washed blue

I love muted colors, they give off a wisdom that a reverse synesthete would give the world and more to hear. I think writing comes to me as naturally as these muted colors in the sense that in the process of writing I have no sense of the words that will be spoken or written by me in the next zeta of time, I can make my own phrases as I go and I can speak nonsense for a prolonged period and It would all tie in together well because at the end there is always a solace I can seek in not knowing what my mind had planned out, nothing has to be planned really. If I keep at it, my words, my ink will all come together, merge into one giant platter of a petri dish like platform where all my alliterations will give way and metaphors convoluted in rusty execution will save me from my muted cage of solitude, my freedom burning a kind washed blue. To me colors come naturally due to my sight but the colors I want to show the world are only a few scratches of paper away, and in this way I see not only colors from my retina but also my soul, as it reaches out to me, as it pours itself out with passion to the brim of my finger tips and hovers over me and within me like a ghost adorned with a kind, washed, blue. Muted colors speak to me as the wind would speak to cattle in a forest and in my pursuit of writing I follow their will, binding me in my own freedom.