When I find the living a bore
There's a place I go
I answer the call, go over a wall
Where the crosses are all in a row
I mind the trees, get down on my knees
There's a hole in the gate
I look around, that I won't be found
And sit down next to his grave

So its been awfully dead around here lately. I'm working on my honnors thesis, working on finals, working on working. Yeah, that's how things are. I didnt get much done this weekend, and I really dont care. I'm simultaniously very happy, and also very down. I'm not sure why.

If you squirm at the Conqueror Worm
This is no place for thee
Or if you fright at the mere site
Of the corpse of my Annabel Lee
If you fear there's something you hear
A heart beating under the floor
Still your heart, there's no need to start
It's just me having tea with Lenore

That's not really true. I know why I'm feeling this duality of self. Its that time of year, of course, when the dead of winter finally abates, and the world takes up the green, yellow, and white mantle of spring. Life is surounding me, glowing, the sap flooding into the sleeping trees so fast you can hear the rush. And now the trees are green with life again. The flowers bloom, golden and royal, white petals falling like the snow that never does here.

Sit here on the ground
Dead leaves in the trees all around you
Come enter this land
Take this book in your hand

So why does this cause this polarity of self? Its rather simple, really. In the winter I am, unquestonably, a creature of the darkness. My garb, my life, my thoughts, all of it, are driven by the night. But now, as the earth warms, so does my blood, and the cold coagulation which makes me a stalker, a ghoul, abates, and I awake. This new self, this awake form, reveles in life, revels in the joy and beauty of spring. And the glory of summer which is coming.

If you find the living a bore
There's a place you can go
Answer the call, go over the wall
Where the crosses are all in a row
Mind the trees, get down on your knees
Sneak in just like the breeze
Look around, though you won't be found
It's just you, Edgar Allen and me

Do I shed this skin of the winter, this black plumage which I have grown so comfortable in this winter? Or do I remain in it, though my blood burns to dance in the summers warmth? Do I embrace this pagan self, this happy hippy within me? If i shed this, what comes from under it will be a creature none of my associates know, except for a few. The dreamer, the joker, the creature without care, without angst.