I may be too short, or perhaps too tall.
I don’t seem able to swim at all.

I can’t drive a car, I can’t fly a plane,
Exercising too much always gives me a pain.

I think cities are too crowded, the country to plain.
The jungles are too hot with far too much rain.

I come from the north.  I live in the west.
The east is beautiful, the south is the best.

I find the summers too hot and the winters to cold
I am way too young and far too old.

I fear so much I don’t know where to begin…
Water, heights, dogs, clowns, priests and sin.

I don’t have a job.  I work too many hours.
I only take baths.  I love to take showers.

I find oceans too salty, ponds full of mud,
Lakes are too calm and rivers tend to flood.

I don’t have children, a dog or a cat. 
I am much too thin and way to fat.

You may say I am not perfect but I disagree.
For I am the only me that there ever shall be. 

“can you guffaw?” he asks
  quite seriously. “i mean really,
  what the hell is a guffaw?”

a hearty, boisterous burst of
  laughter, i answer.

“thank you webster, but
  like, who guffaws anymore?”
  he continues, a beer in
  one hand, a pretzel in
  the other, trying to sound
  intelligent despite his
  slurred speech.

i would, were this discussion
  any more ridiculous…

jackass, i reply.

“does anyone even say
  guffaw anymore?”

The Alchemist, written by Brazilian author Paulo Coelho, is a very simple tale with a profound meaning.  The writing is clear and effective.  The novel is as effective as the reader will allow it to be.

The story is of Santiago, an Andalusian shepherd boy, who follows his heart.  It was written some time ago, though has remained as timeless as The Little Prince.

I’ve not yet delved very deeply into the novel, though am already enjoying it greatly.

Write about what comes to mind when you view an old map.

The front porch is the perfect place to watch life reinvent itself, as is always the case with each passing season.  Children run for their school buses, while parents wave (sometimes weep) from a distance.

Scout (my 8 year old German Shepherd gem) and I observe, this nurturing part of our lives long over.  Without a (human) female presence in our home, we’ve become silent in our emotions.  We’ve become complacent in this knowledge, both she and I… though something occasionally stirs.

That tear shed quietly by a young father, loading his little girl onto the bus for her first day of kindergarden.  These moments capture an old soul, and remind it of its humanity.

How long can one fall into this descent?