Muddy boots kicked off,
Wet hair ruffled,
A slight cold shiver,
And that unmistakable cough.
The winter rain to dance to,
Gum boots sloshing in the puddles,
Moodiness caused by dreary skies,
The idea of hot chocolate sounds good.
The heater which warms the hands,
Grandma knitted sweaters all around,
Scarves and gloves of every colour,
Snow if you’re lucky.
Warm soup never tastes better,
Staying inside is a good idea,
Rainy day movies in the vcr,
Cooked marshmallows in the hearth.
For some it’s Christmas time,
For others it’s the year’s middle,
It’s the season of cold and grey and melancholy,
And it’s the season of self-made warmth.
I have a French oral tomorrow, but I'd rather ignore it and reside at my blog. Why oh why do they give you three assessments in one week and then on top of that expect you to be prepared for tutorials and still have sanity by the end of it---I sometimes wonder how people do it. Is it really possible to do well both academically and socially, or do you have to forsake one a little for the other? And then when 'socialising time' turns into 'too much solitude time', well, then....
One turns to poetry. I've been doing a bit of that lately. It doesn't take long (to shape it up and create a masterpiece would be a different matter) and it allows you to release emotions quickly and sharply and impulsively (this is how it works for me anyway). I've been doing sort of 'free-falling' poetry, not really immersing myself in getting rhythms (but then I don't have a sense of rhythm anyway) or abac whatever patterns. What I've really been doing is writing in lines---I write a bit, and then decide it's time to press 'enter' and start on a new line. I don't know if that's poetry, I mean if I'm to go self-critical at this point, I'll point out that i don't have the widest vocabulary or a knack for groovy metaphors. But it's kinda fun and self-absorbing.
And it just so happens we're doing Romantic (a literary/art movement, not necessarily meant to evoke Mills and Boone imagery) poetry. I read up on John Keats just on the weekend and he died at a young age, which makes it fascinating that the guy could write all that poetry in his late teens to early adulthood, talk about child prodigy, the James Dean of the poets. Oh and he was a short statured person, so I guess I can identify with him there.