Graced with Grace

  Colors of calm quietude, Dreamy waters, The still evening air, Closing an another summer day.   Skies of soft purple hues, Sun slipping behind horizon, Gentle whispers of the wind, Another day's end.   Perfect tranquility, Reflections, Grace from the heavens For this day's beginning to end.  

The lonesome person, the loner, and the lone person; they sound a bit alike, but they're all a little different. The lonesome person. I see them on the street walking past or sitting quietly watching passer-bys. They may not even be sitting alone, but they're still a lonesome person. I see it in the eyes. They're sad. They live in a different world. Maybe a world they used to know, or a world they've always wished for and never had, but they're lonesome and can't get out of it. They live by themselves even though they may be surrounded by people. Maybe they plug their ears with music to block out the noise in their own confused head. But their lonesome and they don't want to tell you. They do and they don't chose this life. Its not that they like being lonesome, but they just are. Maybe they've lived to long in bitterness and hate. Or maybe it was a life of pain and hurt, so they run from it all and hide within. Maybe their lost and can't

    I think I would sometimes like to blame my lack of writing on a big boisterous city that casts a shadow over my creative writing skills. I am convinced that it is the fresh country air that gives breath to beautiful writing. But there is always excuses of one kind or another to ignore the pen and paper.   And then again, maybe I never had that skill of writing and only dreamed I did. Or maybe I did, but it is all over and gone to the wind. Or maybe still it is yet there and you have yet to see what I can produce.   I still have a tiny bit of a dream that I will some day write a book and then again I really don't know that I want to.   Its kind of the same as I feel about farming. I have always had this romanticized view of authors and farmers and thought to myself that someday I should be one. Well, I will probably never be a farmer; I gave up that dream long ago.   But there still flickers a flame of hope that I might one day be an author.   But ala