picture: this summer, in august, i saw the glimpse of winter,
as we trekked along langjokull in iceland.
it held its silence under 20+ hours of sunlight.
it has bared its fangs suddenly. the slight chill that lingered on the edge of the scent 'autumnal foliage,' turned itself into a maelstrom of flurries and ice. compacted snow that eats your bicycle tires. all the sudden, the feet experiences amnesia: how to- . the basic rules of the day were thrown up in the air. things taking much longer. things slowing down. things diving into slurry of mixed decay- to silence.
on this sudden descend to ice, i sink with it. the enormous wave will carry me into the depth of the winter, the solstice. it will be dark. death. end. the longest night of the year. the deeper we dig into the grey and blue, we will lose colour- space, ice, water, all mediums bringing you into the point of silence. a visual silence. absence of light.
there is a definitive point of crystallization, water turns into solid. all the sudden, water dreams as it loses all its kinetic energy, converting itself in slumber, pure potential. and once the sun returns with that pale light of winter, we will see into the distance. distance to the stars. starlights that lacks colours. pure white. cold. eternal. a crave.
on postings from iditarod, from the pictures of the past winter that lives in my heart, from drinking greedily from the cold, cutting wind into the core of my lungs while running outside till as if i would throw up my innards out, from tonight's show of peggy baker-shauna rolston where ice and stillness ruled over the kinetic dance floor humming with humanly impossible drones, from the eyes of huskies looking into the endless horizon, from a man who carries the grey sky and depth of the sea in his eyes, from the sky, the pale grey draws me into the wild north. colour of the iceberg.
north is calling. it is calling with its gnarly grasp, digging into my heart, till it bleeds red hot. steaming.
i am planning an escape, into the wind. into the cold. whether i succeed or not, it no longer matters.
i thirst for the winter to cut me through. to free me. to freeze my senses till the point of crystallization, of white light. of solstice. of the cusp. so that we may live again, to start that gradual march into tomorrow, resonating with that ancient hum of silence. of ancient days, as if trapped in icebergs and glaciers.
i crave for the wind to burn my face.
i want to drink that endless, blades-full wind,
i run faster than i should,
i fly on my bike, on the edge of torquing into a fall,
i live, i bleed into the cold,
i am alive.
my heart sings.
till it bursts into pieces.
into winter wind.
i am that compass needle. i point one way. my heart tugs one way.
winter is coming.