It is cold most days

It is cold most days now. Sometimes, there is a pleasant breeze and mild sunshine, but those days of summer which I loathed and enjoyed in equal measure seem to be farther and farther away. Often, in autumn, time seems to fly and yet, there is a stagnation in the air. I walked back home from the University in the rain, my shoes making small splashes in the puddles that had collected on the footpath. I walked back home and opened the door to a warm apartment. I am sitting at my desk now, watching the rain fall on the streetlights enjoying the silence.

 

I have found that I am far too irritated when I come back from the University. Something about company seems to repel me. I feel a sense of disgust with the way my colleagues carry on, with their pathetic bickering over some drama that they breed in their own lives. It is often who went out with whom, and who said what to whom. I had hoped that there was a certain maturity in medical students, but I was wrong. As of now, I am glad that my day at the University is over. I planned for a solitary dinner but Yvette wishes to pay me a visit. Yvette promised that her visit would “cheer” me up. I have to admit that her company certainly does cheer me up. She is a person who believes in the optimistic view that even on cold days like today, one can find warmth if only they looked for it. I don’t look for warmth, I get enough of it from my electric heaters and somehow, this arrangement suits the rationalist in me as much as it strangles the romantic that creeps up on me when I least expect it.

I have reduced my smoking and I am glad with my progress so far. Self development is usually a continuous process. As I am sitting, watching the rain, I think of Marija, and her Estonian apartment. She sent me a letter a few days ago, and old fashioned though the method of communication is, I find that it is fitting. There was no return address, and the envelope read my name and address and on the back, all it said was “Marija”. I recognized her handwriting immediately but I haven’t been able to bring myself to read it. It lies unopened on my desk and I can’t even bring myself to stash it away in my drawer.It sits on my desk like a paperweight that ties me to my desk. I watch it meditatively, and I am drawn to its pristine condition. It doesn’t bear the mark of a letter passing through letterboxes and delivery vans. I am enamored with her handwriting, I can picture her hands placing the letter in the envelope and I am feel the warmth of her hand writing across it. What went through her mind as she wrote my address? Did her lips say my name under her breath as she wrote the address. Was there a thrill in her as she wrote her name at the back of the envelope?

There is a knock on my door, it must be Yvette. The letter still sits on my desk.

 

 

Original

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