Animation by Charlotte Ager

@studiomeggy

• Flowers in your kitchen, fresh, home friendly, paper, whatever!
• that special type of cookie you like
• a family recipe or recipe shared by a friend
• nice soft clean sheets
• a new hobby
• buttons, marbles, sun catchers, glass vases
• watching birds in the park or your backyard
• homemade ice tea. Homemade lemonade! Homemade hot chocolate!!!
• a beloved pet
• a good friend
• a neighbor you’re getting closer too
• a walk in the sun
• a nap while its raining
• a game or book from your childhood
• A treat, because you DESERVE it

Life is a hospital where every patient is obsessed by the desire of changing beds. One would like to suffer opposite the stove, another is sure he would get well beside the window. It always seems to me that I should be happy anywhere but where I am, and this question of moving is one that I am eternally discussing with my soul. "Tell my, my soul, poor chilly soul, how would you like to live in Lisbon? It must be warm there, and you would be as blissful as a lizard in the sun. It is a city by the sea; they say that it is built of marble, and that its inhabitants have such a horror of the vegetable kingdom that they tear up all the trees. You see it is a country after my own heart; a country entirely made of mineral and light, and with liquid to reflect them." My soul does not reply. "Since you are so fond of being motionless and watching the pageantry of movement, would you like to live in the beatific land of Holland? Perhaps you could enjoy yourself in that country which you have so long admired in paintings on museum walls. What do you say to Rotterdam, you who love forests of masts, and ships that are moored on the doorsteps of houses?" My soul remains silent. "Perhaps you would like Batavia better? There, moreover, we should find the wit of Europe wedded to the beauty of the tropics." Not a word. Can my soul be dead? "Have you sunk into so deep a stupor that you are happy only in your unhappiness? If that is the case, let us fly to countries that are the counterfeits of Death. I know just the place for us, poor soul. We will pack up our trunks for Torneo. We will go still farther, to the farthest end of the Baltic Sea; still farther from life if possible; we will settle at the Pole. There the sun only obliquely grazes the earth, and the slow alternations of daylight and night abolish variety and increase that other half of nothingness, monotony. There we can take deep baths of darkness, while sometimes for our entertainment, the Aurora Borealis will shoot up its rose-red sheafs like the reflections of the fireworks of hell!" At last my soul explodes! "Anywhere! Just so it is out of the world!"

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer’s lease hath all too short a date: Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimm’d; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm’d; But thy eternal summer shall not fade Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; Nor shall Death brag thou wander’st in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou growest: So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this and this gives life to thee.

In the green morning I wanted to be a heart. a heart. And in the ripe evening I wanted to be a nightingale. A nightingale. (Soul,turn oranged colored. Soul, turn the color of love.) In the vivid morning I wanted to be myself. A heart. And at the evenings end I wanted to be my voice A nightingale. Soul, turn orange colored. Soul, turn the color of love.

Don't go far off, not even for a day, because -- because -- I don't know how to say it: a day is long and I will be waiting for you, as in an empty station when the trains are parked off somewhere else, asleep. Don't leave me, even for an hour, because then the little drops of anguish will all run together, the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift into me, choking my lost heart. Oh, may your silhouette never dissolve on the beach; may your eyelids never flutter into the empty distance. Don't leave me for a second, my dearest, because in that moment you'll have gone so far I'll wander mazily over all the earth, asking, Will you come back? Will you leave me here, dying?

Her voice is like clear water That drips upon a stone In forests far and silent Where Quiet plays alone. Her thoughts are like the lotus Abloom by sacred streams Beneath the temple arches Where Quiet sits and dreams. Her kisses are the roses That glow while dusk is deep In Persian garden closes Where Quiet falls asleep.

A violet in the meadow grew, Bowed to earth, and hid from view: It was a dear sweet violet. Along came a young shepherdess Free of heart, and light of step, Came by, came by, Singing, through the flowers. Oh! Thought the violet, were I, If only for a little while, Nature’s sweetest flower yet, Till my Beloved picked me, pressed Me fainting, dying to her breast! So I might lie, There, for but an hour! Alas! Alas! The girl went past: Unseen the violet in the grass, Was crushed, poor violet. It drooped and died, and yet it cried: ‘And though I die, yet still I die By her, by her, By her feet passing by.’

In the winter, we shall travel in a little pink railway carriage With blue cushions. We shall be comfortable. A nest of mad kisses lies in wait In each soft corner. You will close your eyes, so as not to see, through the glass, The evening shadows pulling faces. Those snarling monsters, a population Of black devils and black wolves. Then you'll feel your cheek scratched... A little kiss, like a crazy spider, Will run round your neck... And you'll say to me : "Find it !" bending your head - And we'll take a long time to find that creature - Which travels a lot...

Come to me in the silence of the night; Come in the speaking silence of a dream; Come with soft rounded cheeks and eyes as bright As sunlight on a stream; Come back in tears, O memory, hope, love of finished years. O dream how sweet, too sweet, too bitter sweet, Whose wakening should have been in Paradise, Where souls brimfull of love abide and meet; Where thirsting longing eyes Watch the slow door That opening, letting in, lets out no more. Yet come to me in dreams, that I may live My very life again though cold in death: Come back to me in dreams, that I may give Pulse for pulse, breath for breath: Speak low, lean low As long ago, my love, how long ago.

Love has no other desire but to fulfill itself But if your love and must needs have desires, Let these be your desires: To melt and be like a running brook That sings its melody to the night. To know the pain of too much tenderness. To be wounded by your own understanding of love; And to bleed willingly and joyfully. To wake at dawn with a winged heart And give thanks for another day of loving; To rest at the noon hour and meditate love's ecstasy; To return home at eventide with gratitude; And then to sleep with a prayer For the beloved in your heart And a song of praise upon your lips.

The time will come when, with elation you will greet yourself arriving at your own door, in your own mirror and each will smile at the other's welcome, and say, sit here. Eat. You will love again the stranger who was your self. Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart to itself, to the stranger who has loved you all your life, whom you ignored for another, who knows you by heart. Take down the love letters from the bookshelf, the photographs, the desperate notes, peel your own image from the mirror. Sit. Feast on your life.

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of being and ideal grace. I love thee to the level of every day's Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light. I love thee freely, as men strive for right. I love thee purely, as they turn from praise. I love thee with the passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.