There is a certain something about arriving in a new geography. The mountain top you haven’t seen before has a certain shimmer to it, and you swear that the sun never broke through the clouds quite like it did just now. The opera of the world is to be found in places where you let it slide underneath your skin, out where the need to put up your guard dissipates.
Open roads and sweeping fields of rock and ice; they find their way through the pores of your skin; they seep into your bones and drive away the ache. It feels reinvigorating, it feels honest, it feels grandiose. Shadows moves on boulders as the car cuts through the landscape. In the horizon a church spire grows over a still lake. Vulcanized rubber makes a steady roll, and a gnashing of gravel accompanies the silent hum stemming from underneath the hood of the car, and you start to remember why you keep a camera nearby. Pick it up, try to capture the moment. It doesn’t succeed. The moment is already gone, it was meant to be something fleeting this time. Clouds drift lazily around in the sky. It doesn’t matter. You put down the camera.
A dreamlike haze has descended on the passengers in the vehicle. Seeing the world through a haze is an oft-forgot tool. It dulls the senses just enough to let the sharp edges turn round and soft. The heavy knots that tie you to the crust of the earth have loosened and slips off your wrists. As soon as the bonds hit the floor of the car the though tears itself free, and your body starts to feel light. You can see the thought leave through the window next to you and speed off to frolic on the nearest mountain top from where it dives into a milky white cloud. And the road, the road with its yellow lines stretches itself through the windshield and leaves out the back.
The car slowly dissolves until it isn’t there anymore, and you hover in the midst of nature, suspended over asphalt and snow in the hum from the motor, and then you blink again, breaking the hallucination. There is something to be learned here, there is a truth in this, and it is to be felt. This truth is not to be put on the torture rack of analysis and discussion; it is not to have its soul plucked from its chest through confession. It is quiet and dignified, and it slips through your fingers as the car follows a bend in the road.
The ocean sneaks up on you from the right. White foam dances on top of the wave before it is thrown ashore and its bubbles are left to burst on the black sand of Iceland. You step out of the car and slam the door behind you. Making your way to the water the wind whips your face, making it blush, feeling tiny needles on your skin. Deep breath, long exhale. The cold burrows underneath your coat from the outside seeking to warm itself with your body heat. You raise the camera and try to catch the clash and dance.
In the city, darkness slowly sets upon people, and the street lamps flicker on, spreading their yellow cones over blankets and signs. In front of the police station, you hear the drums of the poor and forgotten.
