St. Agnes’ Eve—Ah, bitter chill it was!
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;
The hare limp’d trembling through the frozen grass,
And silent was the flock in woolly fold:
Numb were the Beadsman’s fingers, while he told
His rosary, and while his frosted breath,
Like pious incense from a censer old,
Seem’d taking flight for heaven, without a death,
Past the sweet Virgin’s picture, while his prayer he saith.
I very much miss having my own space. Just for the creativity of it I guess. Although a tidy bedroom at least would be a joy at this point.
The fall seemed to fly by. I didn’t suffer through it as I do most semesters. I was busy but not so dreadfully busy that I could barely managed things. No. I found it to be just right. I’m sick of it now, however. I would like to feel the warmth of the sun on my face and hear the ching ching of money bank account. But summer taunts me from afar as per usual 10 months out of the year.
I cannot wait to get out of this place. Not because it is a god-awful place. Just because I crave something deliciously novel in my life.
I cannot stand a stagnant life. Time is fleeting and there are so many precious, surprising, melt-in-your-mouth moments to be had! I want to go and be everywhere and anywhere that I can have those moments of newness and of spontaneity.
Sometimes a wave of perfect lust for life comes over me and I am so extremely happy to be what and who and where I am that it overcomes me. It is the most unexpected thing. I am always looking forward which depresses me at times when I realize I am not living now. Right now I look foward to summer and next year, hoping for something more fulfilling than the current.
“We washed the dishes in the gurgling creek. The roaring bonfire kept the mosquitoes away. A new moon peeked down through the pine boughs. We rolled out our sleeping bags and went to bed early, bone weary.” - The Dharma Bums by Jack Kerouac