I don't know why I do this. I do it during the spring as well, at least the surrounding myself with stuff thing. But during the winter, it's more like I'm putting up a barrier between myself and the cold. Enough books, enough pens, and the winter's cold won't touch me. In the spring, it's an enjoyment of the sun, a soaking in of the color of the sun on the pages and the tables and the pure life that seems to fill every area around me. Winter is a time of hibernation.
Winter is quiet.
I used to surround myself with solitude during the winter, embrace my hermit like inclinations and hunker down behind the books. Hours spent with my class assignments and iPod and DVDs watched by myself.
Winter is busy.
This winter I've gone dancing. Watched movies with friends and played board games in coffee shops. Explained why I wear my claddagh ring on my left ring finger when I go dancing. Learned how to set someone on fire without actually burning them. My inner hermit has been gently pushed onto an island and asked to enjoy the quiet in that back corner of my room.
Winter is.
