On a winter’s Sunday I go

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I have been pretty quiet over the Christmas hols; sorry about that. It’s been a very busy time of year for me, as it is for everyone. I’ve been up early and revising for ten, 12 hours every day. I’ve been jetting here and there with my mum to be present-delivering elves. I’ve been up until 4:00am bent over a sewing machine, finishing my handmade gifts last minute. I’ve been opening the most heartfelt presents with a glass of bubbly on Christmas day, while my dogs wore festive Father Christmas bandanas. I’ve been hiking St David’s Head in the bitter blustery British weather, and dressing up all fancy that evening for a splendid New Year’s Eve party.

(Happy 2015, by the way, everyone! Only 104 more years until we can join Starfleet.)

So it’s not that I’ve forgotten to write so much as that I’ve had an awful lot on my plate, and, at the end of the day, when forced to make a choice between things we have to do and things we’d like to do, we all know which one gets thrown by the wayside.

But I start term again tomorrow, and I woke up this morning with a view to getting a few hours of work in before I needed to pack up my bags and return to uni. So I was sat at my desk with the room light on and the curtains drawn, because the sun hadn’t really come up yet, and it was only when I left my bedroom for one final bubble bath did I actually clock the rather breathtaking scene outside my window.

It was foggy and gorgeous, and made me rather feel like I was in a horror film.

This time of year always makes me nostalgic, or at the very least quietly contemplative. I think it’s partly due to revision and spending so much time in one’s own head. I love the white and the grey and the green; it makes me think about when I first moved house around Christmas 2012, the very day the heavens opened for my first proper white Christmas. I binge drank peppermint tea, revised in rooms full of moving boxes lit only by streetlights reflecting off snow through undressed windows, and listened to Bat For Lashes’ version of I’m On Fire about a hundred times.

(It’s 10AM Gare du Nord this time around. Always with the haunting, broken love songs in the winter.)

January always gets to me, I think, because it’s this time of new beginnings. New year, new promises, new goals, new term. But at least from where I’m standing now, I’ve still got the best part of a month of tiredly trudging through the slew of last year’s stress before I can get on with all the new things. 1/12 of this year is spent tying up the last one. That’s kind of sad, I think.

At the end of the day, though, beginnings are just endings. You can’t start new things without finishing up those that you’ve already started (well, from a point; my workload from last semester would beg to differ).

So I’m happy to work hard in January. Maybe not in the gym or on my non-existant smoking habit, as I’m sure some people’s New Year’s missions entailed, but to just keep pushing through. My song this time of year is always January Hymn, by the Decemberists; it’s where this entry’s title comes from (I honestly didn’t mean this to end up like an extended music rec list, I promise). If you give it a listen, you’ll know why.

The new year is cold and misty and grey, like some sort of pathetic fallacy about my life at the moment, but if we keep moving through, soon everything’s going to change.

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