He didn’t remember her name. She had lived down the way, down the long road, the only road. In the old Cready farm house. And she had left without saying goodbye.
The town couldn’t really be called a town. Maybe land with two farms and a general store, but not a town. She sighed. Hello Rural nebraska. They weren’t even original enough to come up with a decent name
He took me to rural place where we stopped at an inn for the night. the out side was chilly but the fire was warm and welcoming. “Come, “he said to me “let me show you to your room.” this place is so wonderful. How I wish I could stay,” I tell him.”But you cant. We head for the alps tomorrow.” He says gravely. “Yes, I know” I say in sad tone………..
When I hear the word rural I will always think of home. I have always lived in rural places, where you can see the sunset or sunrise stretch for miles adn the clouds hang over the cattle like puffy paintbrush marks. I think of how someday I want t olive in a treehouse and the middle of a rural area.
So many places. Out in the desert, in the middle of an island. In the middle of a big city. Hang on to me and we can go anywhere. Don’t worry for I can make it right.
I grew up in a rural town with lots of trees and lots of cows. Hunting was viewed as a way of life for some people, for others it was cattle-rearing. Either way, everyone knew each other in some way.
Am I dreaming of rural?
Encapsulated, overstimulated by my urban
urbano
Will the rural quell my mind and my anxieties?
fomo
Or leave me devoid, searching?
its a busy street. people keep bumonging in to each other. and action figure gets trampled. He looks to a woman a milk man. the mild man pour milk on him. the city explodes. the axion figue melts.
In a wide open expansive, rural abyss, lies a small ugly sheep like dog. Unknown to the world he inhabits. He strolls the country side eating wild lettuce, talking to pigeons.
Out there in the green world that moves away from you gently, quietly, still. The cows lying down under the trees, in the soft shade, away from the rest of us staring at them with silly grins as we fly by in our vans and cars and trucks. They flick their ears, some people say to chase the flies away. But I think they’re talking to one another, pointing out how silly we look waving to them and calling out, “Moo.” I’ve never really heard a cow say Moo, have you? It’s not really what they’re saying. And like most rural folks, they pretty much don’t care what we think about what they say or how they say it or not. They’ve got the grass and the trees and the cows and the big blue skies and the dark dark clouds and the soft rain. They don’t need much more than that. We don’t either. Except we don’t know it the way they do.
A place were I can breath. Out of the smog. The crowds. The loud and crazy and unexpected. Clean air. Space. Open sky. A retreat from the realities of a busy life. I’d love a rural life. Get me out of the city!
The blonde lady from the big city was picking at invisible lent on her shoulder, avoiding Andrew’s questioning eyes. His father had always said they weren’t call city slickers for nothing, and she was real slick alright with her fancy suit, high heel shoes, and designer bag. Andrew followed her real close as she took stock of his home, wrote stuff down, and asked funny questions that sounded more like thinly disguised accusations.
every summer people from the big cities decide to take a little trip to the “easier” places, just to clear their minds. do we have to escape in order to survive? and how come most of us decide to go back once we’ve had our little dose of “easy”?
All the best things in the city seem to focus on the emptiness echoing outward from its center. They stumble towards it to experience deafening silence. Then they crawls back to the #rural death, where they will sleep until the next moon. @oznolem @oneworddotcom
I really prefer the easy going pace of rural Barbados as opposed to the metropolitan area. I find that a fast paced environment creates more anxiety and frustration in my mind
“It’s back country rot,” I say. He sighs, seems depressed, and then asks, “Can you not see the positive side to living out in the sticks?” But to me rural life means death of the soul, retirement, put out to pasture to fall apart unseen, to wake up one morning stiff as ice. Sure, it’s fine for a visit to collect thoughts, to recharge, but to hermit yourself away among the questionably related neighbors for all your life, no, just no. I can’t be around suspicious people who gossip for lack of anything meaningful to focus on, who think intellect is the same as mindlessly repeating rhetoric, people who will judge and treat you differently if you don’t worship or vote the same way, people so poor in all the ways that count in the mind and the heart too. So I left never to return that place. I’ll work, I’ll write, I’ll sing, I’ll paint, I’ll look at street art or go to art galleries, I’ll watch films, I’ll go to real science and history museums, I’ll attend music concerts, I’ll go to protests and parades and I’ll live a vibrant cultural life elsewhere, till I take my last breath I will be all the things rural is not.
eucharisteo: in the original Greek language means “He gave thanks”. The root word “charis” means “grace. Jesus took the bread, and saw it as a gift, as grace, and gave thanks. Eucharisteo makes the knees the vantage point of life. Eucharisteo is the body decreasing and the soul increasing and joy filling the breath between…giving thanks in all things w/o ceasing.
I see in this great state the potential that some settlers saw generations ago. Back when cities and American empires were rolling hills and rural purgatories.
life is too short to not have gaines the inportance of a rular
a student knows the true inportance of a rules
what a great thing to use to punish others
The road was endlessly straight down the country road. Fields as far as she could see. She stood on her tip-toes, watching the rolling corn and soybean fields in either direction. It seemed almost magical to her.
A rural landscape spread out before them, sprawling over the misty green hills. They could see a red barn gleaming somewhere off in the distance, set aglow with the morning sun.
Idyll. Pastoral. Ideal. A place of calm in the world. A place where you go fishing with your friends and ride at breakneck speeds down backwoods roads surrounded by endless fields of green and gold. Bliss.
Rural is boring and plain. Hills, grass, corn. More corn. Rural is also home. As boring as it can be it will always house familiar faces. Rural isn’t hustling and bustling, but steady and reliant. Change is good and change is fun, but every now and then it’s nice to sit back and let the waves carry you (even if the waves are made of more corn).
Rural’s home. The ruler by which I measure memories. And yet the place where land stretches so far and sky’s so big it can’t be measured at all. But I hold “rural” against all else: This is home. This is now. The place I run from and to. It’s a hell of a lot more than a label or a country song. I wanted to leave. To escape. And I did. Then I “escaped” right back again. To rural. To freedom. To me.
My old family home use to be in a rural area. Now it is gone, no longer existing in this cruel world. It was very old and rustic. Faded brick made this house. Old wood floors that were cold to walk on in the morning. Well water that tasted better than city water. This house defined me. The rural countryside was me. Oh how I miss living outside of a big city. I missed the smell of fresh plowed dirt and harvesting time. I missed the smell of the wood. The horses stable. The chicken coop. What I once hated I know miss desperately. Looking out my bedroom window and drawing what I saw. Now all I see is buildings, hideous buildings. Take me back to that rural area.
Where I’m from, rural is referred to rednecks as home. Home of the corn, the grass, the long, long rows of fields that never seem to end. Living here your whole life gets pretty mundane. I want a change. I want the ocean for awhile.
favorable,rule life, It was a rural area and I knew that I was where I belonged. It wasn’t the crazy lights that surrounded me it was the peaceful place that I knew I could be and stay.
Rural is home. Rural is when the wind is blowing just right and you can smell the pig farm 5 miles away. Its when the combine is slowly descending down the road and you almost always know what field the farmer is going to. Rural is when it takes you 30 minutes just to get to your nearest town on some curvy back roads that don’t even have names, you just know descriptions and landmarks.
The road behind the farm is well worn. Summers, springs, winters have seen me time and time again. To fall in love, to fall out of love, and to find my head. Drive like you’re going to new fifty, turn left. Then straight until you see the fence. Sometimes, instead of going home we take a right. Uneasy gravel roads give me peace.
He didn’t remember her name. She had lived down the way, down the long road, the only road. In the old Cready farm house. And she had left without saying goodbye.
The town couldn’t really be called a town. Maybe land with two farms and a general store, but not a town. She sighed. Hello Rural nebraska. They weren’t even original enough to come up with a decent name
He took me to rural place where we stopped at an inn for the night. the out side was chilly but the fire was warm and welcoming. “Come, “he said to me “let me show you to your room.” this place is so wonderful. How I wish I could stay,” I tell him.”But you cant. We head for the alps tomorrow.” He says gravely. “Yes, I know” I say in sad tone………..
interesting activity
space
open
limited people
animals
farms
outdoors
relaxing
space
open
limited people
animals
farms
outdoors
relaxing
easygoing
When I hear the word rural I will always think of home. I have always lived in rural places, where you can see the sunset or sunrise stretch for miles adn the clouds hang over the cattle like puffy paintbrush marks. I think of how someday I want t olive in a treehouse and the middle of a rural area.
So many places. Out in the desert, in the middle of an island. In the middle of a big city. Hang on to me and we can go anywhere. Don’t worry for I can make it right.
I grew up in a rural town with lots of trees and lots of cows. Hunting was viewed as a way of life for some people, for others it was cattle-rearing. Either way, everyone knew each other in some way.
Am I dreaming of rural?
Encapsulated, overstimulated by my urban
urbano
Will the rural quell my mind and my anxieties?
fomo
Or leave me devoid, searching?
its a busy street. people keep bumonging in to each other. and action figure gets trampled. He looks to a woman a milk man. the mild man pour milk on him. the city explodes. the axion figue melts.
The rural town was horrible. Too many backwards idiots who seemed twenty years behind.
Regardless of the locals, she loved the open feel. It was much better than the crowded city. She felt like she could breathe there.
In a wide open expansive, rural abyss, lies a small ugly sheep like dog. Unknown to the world he inhabits. He strolls the country side eating wild lettuce, talking to pigeons.
Rural is in the countrisede. Where there are more rules? Rural rules? The rules of being ruralish? Like raising sheep properly?
What does this word mean. Rural. Sounds dangerous. I bet its the name of a cult that is very dark and mysterious. Dun dun duuuuuhh. Sounds oogy.
Out there in the green world that moves away from you gently, quietly, still. The cows lying down under the trees, in the soft shade, away from the rest of us staring at them with silly grins as we fly by in our vans and cars and trucks. They flick their ears, some people say to chase the flies away. But I think they’re talking to one another, pointing out how silly we look waving to them and calling out, “Moo.” I’ve never really heard a cow say Moo, have you? It’s not really what they’re saying. And like most rural folks, they pretty much don’t care what we think about what they say or how they say it or not. They’ve got the grass and the trees and the cows and the big blue skies and the dark dark clouds and the soft rain. They don’t need much more than that. We don’t either. Except we don’t know it the way they do.
A place were I can breath. Out of the smog. The crowds. The loud and crazy and unexpected. Clean air. Space. Open sky. A retreat from the realities of a busy life. I’d love a rural life. Get me out of the city!
The blonde lady from the big city was picking at invisible lent on her shoulder, avoiding Andrew’s questioning eyes. His father had always said they weren’t call city slickers for nothing, and she was real slick alright with her fancy suit, high heel shoes, and designer bag. Andrew followed her real close as she took stock of his home, wrote stuff down, and asked funny questions that sounded more like thinly disguised accusations.
every summer people from the big cities decide to take a little trip to the “easier” places, just to clear their minds. do we have to escape in order to survive? and how come most of us decide to go back once we’ve had our little dose of “easy”?
All the best things in the city seem to focus on the emptiness echoing outward from its center. They stumble towards it to experience deafening silence. Then they crawls back to the #rural death, where they will sleep until the next moon. @oznolem @oneworddotcom
I had lived in a rural area all my life where things moved slowly, I never thought that I would never move to Manhattan.
So there’s nothing out here, just some fields and trees. Sure there’s a house every once in a while, but that’s what makes this place so perfect.
We’re just stargazing right?
Of course! Come one, I’ve got this great beat up pick up truck and blankets. You bring the hot chocolate and off we’ll go!
Really?
Of course! What better way to watch the stars than to hold one in your arms as you stare at the glittering angels above?
I really prefer the easy going pace of rural Barbados as opposed to the metropolitan area. I find that a fast paced environment creates more anxiety and frustration in my mind
the icey rural road was a horrible driving experience for the new kid
“It’s back country rot,” I say. He sighs, seems depressed, and then asks, “Can you not see the positive side to living out in the sticks?” But to me rural life means death of the soul, retirement, put out to pasture to fall apart unseen, to wake up one morning stiff as ice. Sure, it’s fine for a visit to collect thoughts, to recharge, but to hermit yourself away among the questionably related neighbors for all your life, no, just no. I can’t be around suspicious people who gossip for lack of anything meaningful to focus on, who think intellect is the same as mindlessly repeating rhetoric, people who will judge and treat you differently if you don’t worship or vote the same way, people so poor in all the ways that count in the mind and the heart too. So I left never to return that place. I’ll work, I’ll write, I’ll sing, I’ll paint, I’ll look at street art or go to art galleries, I’ll watch films, I’ll go to real science and history museums, I’ll attend music concerts, I’ll go to protests and parades and I’ll live a vibrant cultural life elsewhere, till I take my last breath I will be all the things rural is not.
eucharisteo: in the original Greek language means “He gave thanks”. The root word “charis” means “grace. Jesus took the bread, and saw it as a gift, as grace, and gave thanks. Eucharisteo makes the knees the vantage point of life. Eucharisteo is the body decreasing and the soul increasing and joy filling the breath between…giving thanks in all things w/o ceasing.
I see in this great state the potential that some settlers saw generations ago. Back when cities and American empires were rolling hills and rural purgatories.
life is too short to not have gaines the inportance of a rular
a student knows the true inportance of a rules
what a great thing to use to punish others
The road was endlessly straight down the country road. Fields as far as she could see. She stood on her tip-toes, watching the rolling corn and soybean fields in either direction. It seemed almost magical to her.
A rural landscape spread out before them, sprawling over the misty green hills. They could see a red barn gleaming somewhere off in the distance, set aglow with the morning sun.
Idyll. Pastoral. Ideal. A place of calm in the world. A place where you go fishing with your friends and ride at breakneck speeds down backwoods roads surrounded by endless fields of green and gold. Bliss.
Rural is boring and plain. Hills, grass, corn. More corn. Rural is also home. As boring as it can be it will always house familiar faces. Rural isn’t hustling and bustling, but steady and reliant. Change is good and change is fun, but every now and then it’s nice to sit back and let the waves carry you (even if the waves are made of more corn).
Rural’s home. The ruler by which I measure memories. And yet the place where land stretches so far and sky’s so big it can’t be measured at all. But I hold “rural” against all else: This is home. This is now. The place I run from and to. It’s a hell of a lot more than a label or a country song. I wanted to leave. To escape. And I did. Then I “escaped” right back again. To rural. To freedom. To me.
corn. brick houses. birds. SUVs. dirt roads. farms. country music. crop dusters. four wheelers. side-by-sides. trails. campers. camp grounds.
My old family home use to be in a rural area. Now it is gone, no longer existing in this cruel world. It was very old and rustic. Faded brick made this house. Old wood floors that were cold to walk on in the morning. Well water that tasted better than city water. This house defined me. The rural countryside was me. Oh how I miss living outside of a big city. I missed the smell of fresh plowed dirt and harvesting time. I missed the smell of the wood. The horses stable. The chicken coop. What I once hated I know miss desperately. Looking out my bedroom window and drawing what I saw. Now all I see is buildings, hideous buildings. Take me back to that rural area.
Where I’m from, rural is referred to rednecks as home. Home of the corn, the grass, the long, long rows of fields that never seem to end. Living here your whole life gets pretty mundane. I want a change. I want the ocean for awhile.
favorable,rule life, It was a rural area and I knew that I was where I belonged. It wasn’t the crazy lights that surrounded me it was the peaceful place that I knew I could be and stay.
I think of corn. Rustic, yellowing corn. Sweet Corntopolis, Midwest. Corn in the rural.
Cern and mas’ed tatas.
Rural is home. Rural is when the wind is blowing just right and you can smell the pig farm 5 miles away. Its when the combine is slowly descending down the road and you almost always know what field the farmer is going to. Rural is when it takes you 30 minutes just to get to your nearest town on some curvy back roads that don’t even have names, you just know descriptions and landmarks.
The road behind the farm is well worn. Summers, springs, winters have seen me time and time again. To fall in love, to fall out of love, and to find my head. Drive like you’re going to new fifty, turn left. Then straight until you see the fence. Sometimes, instead of going home we take a right. Uneasy gravel roads give me peace.