Good Hours

It's that time of the year again, there is something in the air, something white and cold, and something rather strange; this time it's actually a snowy white Christmas, and the time when everything, eventually, slows down. These last few months have been for me rather strange and life overturning, but in the end this fasted paced struggle, though there where a often the feeling of nothing at all would move, entered the Peterson Night Train and came to an end. And I decided that it was now time for a break.

All my shopping has come to an end, the tree is lit and the peace has reached even me. I left my solitude in the south and took the Christmas night train to my parents and the busy life of shopping spirit in the city. There is a special feeling one gets from just strolling around in a hectic last minute celebration of this wonderful time of get-toghethers in shopping malls. Though, I also see coffee shops packed with people having a very good time, which is nice since good coffee should be appreciated.

This Christmas is for me a rather nice one, since I for the first time can afford giving those who have been there for me something in return.

As mentioned, peace has reached me at last, and on this Christmasy evening, I am having a splendid time. I have poured myself a most wonderful winter stout, I am listening to old jazz records and taking life with utmost ease.

I wish all my friends a very merry Christmas.

Good Hours

I had for my winter evening walk—
No one at all with whom to talk,
But I had the cottages in a row
Up to their shining eyes in snow.

And I thought I had the folk within:
I had the sound of a violin;
I had a glimpse through curtain laces
Of youthful forms and youthful faces.

I had such company outward bound.

I went till there were no cottages found.
I turned and repented, but coming back
I saw no window but that was black.

Over the snow my creaking feet
Disturbed the slumbering village street

Like profanation, by your leave,
At ten o’clock of a winter eve.

R. Frost

Blow, Blow thou Winter Wind

BLOW, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind
As man's ingratitude;
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,
Although thy breath be rude.
Heigh ho! sing, heigh ho! unto the green holly:
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:
Then heigh ho, the holly!
This life is most jolly.

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
That dost not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot:
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp
As friend remember'd not.
Heigh ho! sing, heigh ho! unto the green holly:
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:
Then heigh ho, the holly!
This life is most jolly.

W. Shakespeare