(no subject)

I am thirty years old today.

I am sitting in my home, in my bedroom. The window is open and the neighbours are noisy. I need to be awake at five in the morning tomorrow, as usual, to go to work.

It is two months since we had to leave. It is one month since we were able to return. Our home was, and still is, untouched.

I received many good wishes today. And nice little things. One of my friends drew me a picture. Another wrote me a story. Another recorded something for me, since we can't call each other. One bought me coffee. My mother bought me the book of love poetry that I'd asked for.

This city is surrounded by burnt trees. You can't drive on any highway here without seeing their blackened trunks.

There is a carpet of bright green at their feet.

I am safe, and I am loved, and I feel as if I'm the luckiest man in the world.