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Swedish Winter


There are two places I remember hearing the sound of silence. The first was in the basement of the NUS Library, in the middle of the towering shelves sheltering the ageing books, who seem to quietly bide their time in the world of tablets and smartphones. The second, that’s right here in my small room in Lappis, Stockholm, Sweden.

It is a week and one day since I shifted my habitation more than a thousand miles from the sunny little island. Landing here, I set no high expectations of my new home. A few years ago, just half an hour in Snow City had taught me that winter was a foe. The heat of the sun can be tolerated, the wetness of the rain ignored, but the coldness of the winter, it never fails to remind you it is there. Cover your body all you want, but the coldness gets to you where your skin is bare and sometimes, where it is not. Even the ever enjoyable breeze switched side on the command of the winter, heaping more misery when it blows against you. Water runs down your nose, and when you reach for your pocket, your freezing fingers pain from touching the solid metal zip. You turn to your friend to complain about the cold, but when you open your mouth, your jaws seem to have rusted, opening only grudgingly. Your tongue is in no mood to be woken up by the whiteness outside and refuses to enunciate your words clearly. Your words come out like water gargling in your throat and your friend replies, “What?”. You repeat and he laughs nervously in agreement. Conversations are curt and best kept so.

And as you move from one picturesque location to another, you can’t but help wish, if only it was a bit less cold. You can't help but wish that you were back in your room, with the blanket wrapped tightly around you and the silence to keep you company.

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