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58

Win­ter is such ran­dom this year. Yes­ter­day, as I left the office, the air smelled like spring, veiled like a pre­cious in a fog shawl. I was attract­ed by the sweet con­trast of Jar­ry Park. For a while I observed young lovers dis­turb­ing the rel­a­tive quiet­ness of the place. Saint-Lau­rent Boule­vard was no calmer than usu­al, but the trees, oh, seemed to be drink­ing from the promis­ing humidity.

My day had been very busy, I could pre­tend I did­n’t see it pass. That would be lying. My days, I see them begin, end and between one task and the oth­er, I observe myself breath­ing, dwelling, think­ing. I dream, it seems to me, a lot, I often get up dur­ing the night to uri­nate or have a glass of water, liv­ing by proxy a way of anx­i­ety or some kind of fog.

That day, on the eve of my fifty-eighth birth­day, I soaked myself in the calm Van Gogh’s calm of a pud­dle of water. These are pre­cious moments, almost intangible.

Today, I was treat­ed to kind­ness, both at the office and from my close and dis­tant friends. In Brazil­ian, and I believe in oth­er lan­guages, con­grat­u­la­tions are expressed, as if aging were a feat. I don’t think I have more courage than usu­al. Liv­ing is good for yourself.

It was still an ordi­nary day, as it should have been. The wind had risen dur­ing the night. This morn­ing, win­ter had returned to its right­ful place, pow­dery and sun­ny. Noth­ing new, then, on the round Earth. Yes­ter­day’s fog haunts me. I am motion­less and thirsty for col­ors and sensations.

I get old, I get fru­gal. That’s enough for me. New happiness.

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