Monday, March 31, 2014

If only for one summer.


How like a winter hath my absence been

From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!
What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen!
What old December's bareness everywhere! 
And yet this time removed was summer's time;
The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,
Bearing the wanton burden of the prime,
Like widow'd wombs after their lords' decease:
Yet this abundant issue seemed to me
But hope of orphans, and unfathered fruit;
For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,
And, thou away, the very birds are mute:
   Or, if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer,
   That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near.

--W. Shakespeare, Sonnet XCVII

I make fun of people for loving anything too much; working out, their kid, their dog, their significant other. 
But sometimes something will remind me--a song playing in the background of a bar, a line from a movie, two people passing me hand-in-hand--and I remember a summer where every song was about new love, where my heart skipped beats when my phone rang, where even in moments of silence, my mind seemed filled with the noisy chaos of being in love. 

I remember being one of those people who wasn't afraid to be a fool in love, even if only for one summer. 





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