A friend of mine stopped blogging because he felt no one ever read it. Personally, I don't care how many people read or don't read mine. This is me and my silly rants and foibles and follies. I've been amazed when someone actually did comment, either anonymously or with user info, because I can't imagine how they found me, unless it was just through "Next Blog". But I'm flattered that they took the time to read, agree or disagree with me, and then share the experience. When I grow up I'm going to be a writer - which, considering my age, means I'll be the Grandma Moses of the publishing world. But count on it - great things are brewing in my pretty little head, and someday this kettle will boil.
On the ride into work this morning I let myself be lost in the foggy mist and enjoyed the last of the snow from this past weekend. It will no doubt be gone soon, soaked into the ground as if it never existed. Snow for me has always held a deeper meaning. I am happiest when it snows, yet I couldn't begin to explain why. So I looked out the window, imagining romantic characters striding across the pure white expanses, and just breathed in the beauty. Snow wraps around the seemingly dead landscape, and whispers promises of rebirth and renewal as it gently cradles the world in its soft, white blanket.
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