Being rosy relates to an optimistic and hopeful belief that everything will be okay. Rosiness is more than that. It’s not about outcomes; it’s much more sentimental.
It’s that ethereal, heartfelt bond. You’ve felt it before; mostly with people, sometimes with places. It’s a blissful sense of being, of connectedness. It’s the idyllic, poetically romantic attachment we sometimes feel between each other. It’s hard to describe, but it’s dream-like, grainy and dusty, cinematic.
At the risk of sounding like a reading from random thesaurus entries, here’s a semi-constructed attempt at conceptualizing it:
There’s imprecision. It’s cloudy and shrouded and nebulous.
There’s atmosphere. It’s wavering and blurry and translucent.
There’s lightness. It’s glossy and sparkling and glowing.
There’s ambiance. It’s textured and reverberant and resonant.
There’s possibility. It’s dazzling and whimsical and a little bit strange.
There’s relentlessness. It’s endearing and pulsating and poignant.
It overcomes you. Washes over you. Makes you melt. You can either choose to bask in it, or to allow it to drown you out.
It’s hard to find, and even harder to hold on to—ephemeral. It’s somewhat graceful in that way, a sort of fleeting nostalgia. But every once in a while, it comes back to you; a figment in your mind of something that can no longer be.
Especially close yet so far away, leaving you only with the hope that you’ll someday see it again.
At least it’ll always be this way.