There is no quiet place in (your) cities, no place to hear leaves of spring or the rustle of insects wings...The Indians prefer the soft sound of the wind darting over the face of the pond, the smell of the wind itself cleansed by a midday rain, or scented with pinon pine. The air is precious to the red man, for all things share the same breath--the animals, the trees, the man. Like a man who has been dying for many days, a man in your city is numb to the stench.
CHIEF SEATTLE (1790-1866)
So here I am, trying to keep my views of life precious. I will try and remember that what really matters is everything, not just the view from the back of my glasses.
I was filled with regret last time I met you here, so, here is to a new start to the outlook of this blog. I will not be numbed by the stench of regret. I will not be smothered by the past. I will not stop living because I made mistakes. I will not give up taking the back roads, hoping for the best, being optimistic, having my head in the clouds.
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