The sun is always making me feel guilty like go do something. You should be happy, you should be outside, you should be hustlin’ and bustlin’ why are you inside being so boring? Summer is the most totalitarian season of all. I want the winter. The magic, the snow, the quietness, the white sparkly nights. Maybe it’s because life in general scares me. Winter isn’t real life is it? You hibernate, you isolate yourself from others and wait in limbo until its warm, when you should be doing something.
Were you but lying cold and dead,
And lights were paling out of the West,
You would come hither, and bend your head,
And I would lay my head on your breast;
And you would murmur tender words,
Forgiving me, because you were dead:
Nor would you rise and hasten away,
Though you have the will of the wild birds,
But know your hair was bound and wound
Above the stars and moon and sun:
O would, beloved, that you lay
Under the dock-leaves in the ground,
While lights were paling one by one.-William Butler Yeats
O ME! what eyes hath love put in my head, Which have no correspondence with true sight: Or if they have, where is my judgment fled That censures falsely what they see aright? If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote, What means the world to say it is not so? If it be not, then love doth well denote Love’s eye is not so true as all men’s: No, How can it? O how can love’s eye be true, That is so vex’d with watching and with tears? No marvel then though I mistake my view: The sun itself sees not till heaven clears. O cunning Love! with tears thou keep’st me blind, Lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should find!