As kids we were never close, and even as adults we are not that close. There's always room for improving our lives and why not work toward strengthening those bonds that should be closest to us.
I feel for the folks who have to deal with the Real Thing - with snow up to their necks, buried cars, and being home bound. Well, such is the Turning of the Wheel of seasons in order to get up back around to the joyou warmth of the bright summer daze! Least with winter festivals and bundling families the cold is more bearable.
- Just hate getting out in it. . .
Well who would have thought? For quiet a long time there Tehuti had tried to get me into blogging, but because I knew so little about it I felt incapable of pulling it off; yet I finally jumped into blogging, with misspellings and doubts. Well, a year later - after having faded once or twice - I'm still here.
After a year of blogging, having never really kept a journal, I find it a little interesting of the changes I've gone through and the Times as well. Learned more about photoshop, figured out some HTML codes, gotten a new Puppy, moved to a new apartment, a precious granddaughter, had a brother-in-law move in with us, started developing a Company...
Thank you readers for staying interested. Let's see where I am come Next year. . .
As the elders argued among themselves Calan's thoughts strayed. He wondered about the lives of those founding fathers, those ancient Watchers. Now, that he had finally been admitted into the Great Hall, Calan was able to see the detailed chamber in person. There, memorialized in their burial shrouds, as a relief of molded silver, the Watchers themselves decorated the walls. Their errier, silent likenesses commemorated the end of an erea - the passing of Nephilim immortality. But had they as individuals been befitting of such high honnors? Were they as righteous or wise as the stories told? Who could tell for sure, for they had all died years ago, and surely their deeds were exgsaerated?
As Calan listen to Barad drum up support for an army, he surrveyed the faces of those vain Stewards, in their embroided layers of robes, cords and bells; beautifully set in their bitter pious ways. He thought it strange how the light from the tripod lamps cast a creepy, orange glow across their faces, and how they resembled the morbid figures standing behind them. Then it came to him - the Stewards were nothing more than a reflextion of the Watchers own dead values.
How - just moments before he and Barad had interrupted their meeting - they would endlessly argue among themselves over the conjectures of past predictions, and make future speculations on the arrival of those who would never return. Calan thought it all sillyness, 'Wasting their lives in such foolish disputes; they're just as cold as the stone benches they sit on!' Yet, they would be a means to his end....