58 | Guy Verville
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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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