Where we are, beginning of a story I'm working on Options

[xoxo_proud]

I've had this idea of a story in my head for weeks but I couldnt figure out how to start it. I've got something but I'm not sure if it's good. CC please. I need it badly!

He was just a person. A person with flaws and imperfections that showed everyday. He had more friends than one would expect him to have. His father was a rebel and most stayed away from them and anyone associated with them. His favorite color was blue. Blue for the sky, blue for freedom. He himself had never tasted freedom but he imagined it was sweet or perhaps sour. He even thought it might taste like everything. It could, right?

It could taste like the rivers that branched through his country; it could taste like the peaks of the mountains that stood higher than anything else. It could taste like the emerald hill that he was standing on right at this moment.

A light breeze pushed past him without any regards and caused the leaves on the trees to spray in all directions. One of them landed at his feet and refused to move any farther. It was fall and the leave was, well, green. The rest of the leaves were glorious colors. They were rich reds and oranges; yellows and the often forgotten brown. He picked it up and twirled it casually in his right hand. He placed it in his coat pocket and patted it softly.

[xoxo_proud]

Thanks everyone

Yeah and if anyone's a grammer freak, when you're reading can you correct anything if you see it. I;m not the best with some parts of grammer (but I can spell! )

His mother had been passionately killed five years ago. He looked back on it and found the whole scene clichéd. It was dark and stormy, the trees had shivered and the rain had beaten down on Pretium. The whole day seemed like it had been ripped out of some murder mystery movie. It wasn’t fiction though. It was real and it happened and it was reality and had been reality for quite some time and…

He halted his thoughts and refused to think about it anymore. He didn’t want to think about it and he certainly didn’t have to. It was his mind and he could ponder and wonder about whatever he wanted to. His mind, however, didn’t seem to agree with this statement and kept jerking back to her. His mother was very beautiful, had been very beautiful. She wrote prose and poetry and could obtain muse simply from glancing outside. She was always in her office writing this or that. She never complained or whined, even about Pretium’s government.

‘O’er the hills of crimson white
The blue bird sings of restless light
And to his friends and foes alike
He lives for the comfort of darkening night’

He sang it again to her even though he knew she couldn’t hear him.

“Volya!” a girl behind him called. He knew who it was instantly and let her catch up. She brushed a thread of her black hair out of her face and then pulled all of it behind her body in a fit of frustration.

“I heard you singing” Brava said “What was it?”

“Just a song my mother used to sing” Volya answered softly