the flowers are all abloom, and the air is filled with a myriad of smells that inebriate, intoxicate, emaciate and reverate. i cannot stress just how much these smells take me back to my childhood and even a brief stroll down the road is literally one down memory lane. that and the pollen-induced anaphylaxis.
the cold winter winds break upon trees, only to have me chilled to the bone by spring showers. also affectionately known to my friends and i as 'spring'klers.
i start getting melancholic and write my (dull and decrepit) poetry.
i tend to let lectures slip by, in front of my eyes, as i gaze out the window. reverie heavy in my mind, ennui soft upon my fingers. i am lost in a world of promise, as i lose the materiality of a world of the promised. such is the loss of one. the loss of one.
i wake up to birds chirping right outside my windowsill. sometimes a song of humour, sometimes a song of romance, sometimes a song of empathy, sometimes a song of mischief. i can only see what i want to see, in what i hear, and that is what i wake up with, and can only assume to be the fabric of my (forgotten) dreams.
in another part of a world, which i have left behind ere troubles ago, troubles acome; father winter has taken hold, much like it has most of my (previous) life. how odd that autumn is skipped in favour of such malice and woe.
i get a haircut, and all my friends are love-bound. ah, such is the innocence of youth. or gullibility, whichever one prefers. i love haircuts.