Desolation

This is a paragraph from a book i'm writing, it's pretty boring, but I keep writing and writing. I wonder if i'll ever complete any of the books or stories I start, that'll be my next goal. This story is about a gunfighter who is beggining to regret his decisions in life. This is a quick description of who he was.

"He sat at the dining table in the house that his father built long ago, his brown eyes surveying the grain in the wood. The natural consistencies caught his attention the same way most things do that people generally look over, the patterns on a blade of grass, or the thread count on linens. Most people took him for what he was, and what he appeared. A thick sandy brown beard covered his face, and if one looked close enough, they would see strands of red hiding in the brown. The hair on his head was darker and very thick, and if he’d lived to be eighty it never would have receded. On a good day his height was five feet eleven inches, and a bulky one hundred and eighty pounds, which was large for that day and age. When nervous, a stutter would make itself slightly known and then return to depths of his soul when he was comfortable. His guns were always on his hips or within reach. Trust had long since left his company, inside of his racked soul was true loneliness."

Despondent

When I was a boy I would count the stars, and would become angry as the number would change on me, then one day my Father told me that the stars are without number and that one could not possibly count them all, I remember being wrought up, perplexed, despondent. That was my loss. There is always the story of the one that got away, for me this was a 25-30 pound yellow catfish. As I pulled the monster in, he reared his ugly head out of the water, if only to tease me and give me a glimpse of his splendor before returning to the murk. That was my loss. The good part about losses, is that you always gain experience, and you gain an appreciation for what you didn't lose...