There was always a nip in the air. It was permanent, but as the Sun went down, it announced itself. I disliked the cold during the day even more. The Sun was out but was unable to counter it.
As I pulled myself into the jacket, the overalls, or the wind-cheater, I always cringed inside. I was afraid it would lay bare some day, exposing me to the cold. Even when the Sun was around.
I grew to be afraid of the cold. In summer, when people complained of the heat, I felt joy not being in the cold place. But then it would rain, and then there would be a nip in the air. People slept naked by the riverside, and the Sun dazzled. But there was a nip in the air just around the corner of the sleepy town as I took the train through the nearby forests. As I cycled my way over the roads that would threaten to melt in the heat, there was a nip as I slowed down to take a sip of water. It refreshed them, they said. But I was afraid.
I would grow cold from the cold as it laid itself out inside the apartment, capturing my existence. It knawed at me in my sleep and ate away a part of me every second I stayed awake.
And it would always be accompanied by silence.
I have never been a fan of cacophony, but I have never been a fan of silence, either. I must be able to feel the Sun; I must be able to know of its presence.
Even now that I am far from the land, I feel the same way. There is always a nip in the air. It is permanent. The cold never rests, even if the Sun is dazzling and roads are melting. There is cacophony, and there is silence. There is no warmth.