I fell in love again.
I fell madly, shamelessly, irrevocably in love with winter all over again. Summer’s lazy days are all well and good; the taste of lemonade is irrefutable. But it’s winter, my friends, in which the real living begins. Life speeds up. The air seems strangely fit for breathing and instead of being the sort of breaths simply needed for life, they become energy that seems to sharpen the senses. I love better in the winter. It is full of promise, of walls that need decorating, of gifts, of sinking into a hot tub with groups of hugging snowflakes kissing my face, of some of the best smells my nose can find (and my nose is a connoisseur of excellent smells). I have more patience, my generosity increases, and my love for the simple pleasures blasts sky high. It seems that during the summer, everyone is grasping for grandiose schemes of enjoyment: boating, camping, backpacking, sports, massive projects.
It’s in the winter where something as simple as a sweater and a cup of hot chocolate are more than enough.