30 December 20XX+1
My Dear Lucilius:
The cold has returned with a vengeance.
It is hard for me to assess if this is colder than normal – yes, I could look at a temperature record and it would give me the numerical values, but it would not tell me the actual things, like the rationing of heating wood or how precisely long one can consider staying in before the outhouse becomes more than a nice idea.
One looks outside, sighs, and carries on measuring the cost/benefit ratio of the task at hand versus the cold.
I know I have written before about the weather and my perceptions of it – but I find myself thinking more and more about how those perceptions have changed as time has gone on.
It is fair to say that “civilization” – whatever that means – is likely not re-establishing itself this year (given that it is the end of the year!) and, if the complete lack of contact is any indication, is not on its way to making a bold breakthrough next year as well.
The cold should not feel “colder” because it becomes increasingly clear that we are on our own for whatever period of time that is allocated to us – but it does, a sort of intellectual thought that manifests itself as adding an edge to the wind that may not be there or a coldness in our bones that is imagined.
This inner sense impacting the outer sense makes little sense to me, but I know it to be true: The fact that the sun is warmer and the air clearer when we are love for example, or the fog that seems only deeper in our sadness. Our mind somehow adds to the outer world and intensifies the experience in a way I can explain, but not comprehend.
How odd, Lucilius, that the old saw “We make our own weather” is more deeply true than I imagined.
Your Obedient Servant, Seneca
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