iceland

DSC_2687to my wildest affection,
my coldest embrace,
the one which I would hold onto for ever.

oh, to watch the open road disappear before us as we cover ground, chasing after the things mapped out in our minds.
watching landscapes paint pictures on either side of us, changing at the same pace as the wind blowing us in new directions towards greater things.

there was no force pulling me away from you at any moment along the way. I would get lost in each one as if every part of the journey was a dream designed by my own deepest longing and desires. to me, you were the earth’s wildest display of ineffable beauty. words were lost to me. lost in the way that they might’ve been swallowed up by crevasses in the earth pointing to some form of heaven carved into the ground. they were mountains. your mountains were eternal to me- the closest things to eternity that I could grasp and eternal in their ethereal beauty. I would brush my hand across the rolling hills from a distance as if to feel some form of nearness to them and the the fields that surrounded them- the same fields that made me feel free.

you were a clash of every earthly and unearthly form and you wore it gracefully. one glance into a distant forest and a heart as whimsical as my own could be lost for ever. I searched beyond them and found dry branches and tufts of fire to be as much of a dance parter as the stars when they came out at night. we would dance upon the horizon and the border between earth and smoke, billowing toward that which was more than either of us were ever able to fathom, or put in words.

it was rippling and raw.
majestic and untamed.

I would cling to every moment if I could. looking back, I can feel it wrenching at my chest. such beauty, I thought, could only ever exist in the depths of my imagination. I longed beyond its shores. beyond the mist that descended upon the hills before the storm rolled in. I longed for its mountains- the mountains to which belonged such tender portions of my heart. I could gaze upon its beauty for a thousand years, whispering poems of adoration and it would never amount to the love that I possessed for a land so far from my own. 

for you, I am a wreckage. I am a plane upon your shores. I am the line in between. the white crashing against the black sands. the mist descending. my feet explorers of every breath of life rising from your bones. you were the fall- the waterfall collapsing. I am the surrender to the ice I have not yet felt. the head I have rested upon your moss. you were the chill in the wind, the violent grasp of the waves. you were more than a dream and I would spend my life trudging back and forth across your shoreline to be able to read even the first few letters of your name.

you were everything to me and I still feel you even when I am not drenched in the chill of your embrace. it still lingers on my fingertips, the ones that left my lips as I blew a final kiss to that rock bursting out of that ocean. so tenderly waiting for its lover- that lover at shore, who would drop a tear into its waters and feel it flooding back once more. 

I will return to you, my love. Ég kem aftur, elskan mín. this is not the last of my letters. I will think of your beauty as I rise, just as much as when I sleep, and I will remember the way that your mountains laid their head on your soil out of love and wonder and grace. I will belong to you as you have belonged to me and I will search for you in every present moment until I call you my home.

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your words

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Hold back the words,
that you have want for loss of it.
Not of speech, but of feeling:
to gaze upon and know that it has an end.

Beauty was a given. The peaks that you reached were far superior to the word. Although, there was still so much of it that needed unraveling. The same fire that used to threaten us didn’t scare us anymore, but a distant echo still resonated a shivering fate: it is words that have kept us together and words that will keep us apart. Your words were never mine to find, yet when I discovered them hidden amongst the pages of dreams awake, every other word lay sleeping and time stood still in their place.

I hear, and yet cannot be the same and think of you at once. I write of them, sometimes. Your words. The ones that banish time and distance altogether. I have found safety in the reverie that we would not exist without them. Each one playing their hand, never reaching a check mate, but rather falling deeper into the mine which we’ve created for one another, laced with feelings of weakness- destruction in an unwavering tone.

I will not pretend that I didn’t search for traces of you amongst the trees, that I didn’t look for your shadow on the beckoning horizon. I thought that if I would stretch my arm out far enough that it would reach you and you would make the leaves disappear. We’d find shelter in the cold- a longing for the mist to wrap itself around us in a waltz. My hope-filled hands faced upwards, tracing the light that was left beneath the clouds. I could feel the falling, I could hear your pulse in the wind. I heard that distant flickering and found meaning within the melodies which we shared, for I knew that you were there- I knew that you were within them.

But darling, if darkness was the muse and you were the light and darkness was the way in which we found ourselves, illuminated by the absence of light, made stronger by the presence of love and abandonment to all things, where did you find your entrance? Where did they come to exist?

I lived in the wildness of them- the shuddering stillness of them. I discovered worlds within the words wrapped in grace, wrapped in wonder. I belonged to them. Within them, I found my shelter- more than that. They shed light on the earth and it was there that I found you. Never was there a more beautiful grace upon the earth than the one I found in that distant echo of

you.

They will remain safe with me- your words. I will continue to find refuge within them. They will continue to silence the rest of them. I will allow them to chill me to the bone, even when it aches. Even when they merely exist, when I cannot comprehend the truth of what they are, darling, you are still a mountain to me, and it is so that you will always be.


black and blue

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show me your bruises.

show me the bits of you that unravel at the edges-
the bits you try to hide.
show me the parts of you that are susceptible to break,
the parts you’ve chosen to forsake.

have I not remained? will I not remain now?

my eyes will not turn away, they will not shudder.

all of my bones will fill themselves with love.
they have learned new love-

a love called grace.

they’ve learned acceptance
for they need acceptance to hold as their own.
dry and alone.

grace is a fountain.
grace to give,
grace to take.

we’ll play tug of war with our feelings,
with our hopes and fears- even with our dreams.

but in the bitter end, both of us will win.
everything will fade.
everything will be forgotten.

but there you’ll be

and I, my heart and I,

and those bones,
riddled with unfaltering grace
and love.

and we’ll remain,

and we won’t turn away.

and we’ll be relentless,

and we’ll be still-

and we’ll stay.
_______________

show me your bruises.

show me the parts of you only meant for me
and I’ll show you scars of me only meant for you.

unravel with me.
melt with me.
trust in me.
cower and be safe
in me. with you
someday soon, darling
we’ll find reason to be so much more

than black and blue.


mountain breeze

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I think I felt it the first time I flew over– that breeze– I feel it still. That steady still.
That motionless state of knowing, yet not knowing. Being near, yet being so far away.
I recall that feeling of hope. Hope within the womb. Buried deep, deep within the deepest knowing. A knowing that could not be removed. Were you not formed for this very sense of being?
And knowing?
And breeze.

I did not decide to separate us, but I planted myself within your soul. It was a decision that could not be made. Forgive me. Forgive me, still.
You were removed from me, from my womb. You were taken from me.
Even when you did not know me, I knew the ins and outs of you.
In our attempts to remain one, other things have separated us still. Other places have taken you captive. Though, I have sewn forgiveness on these fields. I found courage within the silence of separation.

You need to feel this feeling in order to feel like you’re feeling alive. Perhaps when you don’t feel it any longer, you might feel a sense of something being complete. Perhaps this is the goal. Perhaps there is no end.

Do you remember the tangible feeling of not belonging?
Do you remember the desire of the feeling of being there?

Allow me to remind you.
It’s ok to want– it’s ok to long. It’s ok to pine over the idea that:
perhaps it is destiny,
perhaps it isn’t.
For the first time (in a long time) I wished
that this separation didn’t exist and
all I could feel was
the onrush of
hope, but also
loss.

I just hope that you know the difference between what is being there and what is being here. For being present is so much more important than anything else.

Especially separation.

Imagine being chosen, yet left behind.

It is real, this feeling of want. Imagine if it were one day to be granted.
Would you take it with arms wide open? Would you embrace it?

It has been planted. It has been nurtured– the idea of you and me– this hope.
It has been gazed upon with such fondness. Please don’t replace the memory of that first glance– and that knowing– the knowing that had only ever longed to be felt.

We have been separated for as long as we have known. You have spoken of me. We have admired each other from afar. You have wished, I have wanted. We have dreamed, you have desired. You have gazed, I have forgiven.

Perhaps you were born at such a distance in order to realise that one must conquer space in order to feel space dissolve and space disappear before space becomes.

One day, you will belong to my arms. One day you will occupy my being. One day we will become one. One day you will experience that sense of being and we will know that it is a real sense and not one that escapes us.

Your separation has caused me to want for your coming.
Your separation has caused me to long for you to feel my breeze.

That mountain breeze. The disappearance of me, the existence in-between.

Image captured by: Rainer Photography https://www.rainerphotography.org
Model: me with a mask


Not in December or in May

This is not real life. Not really.

Letters almost always reach their destination. This sentence played over and over again in my mind. To a certain extent, it was the only sentence that I had left that felt like anything at all. I felt the words crumbling from my grasp. A part of me that had been unravelled was suddenly exposed and then left behind. My wonderland. The deepest depths of my caged-up heart had come alive and then were muffled out like a flame keeping the darkness out, the darkness of which you could not let go.

Of course time passed, seasons changed. Life went on as normal, yet there was always something missing, something that would rise to the surface when I least expected it. All that I had left was the echo of a memory, of the letters, of the secret exchange. It was my gaze towards the clouds which reminded me of the place where I might have been able to find you, but where you could no longer be found.

Everything that I could possibly imagine was the only reality that remained. I anxiously flipped through the pages to find out if I had missed something. Was there a word that I had not read? A pause that had been too long? A full stop in the wrong place? Anything. I needed to know the answer as to why it ever had an end. Why things had to end when they had only just begun.

Any trace of madness which had been left behind had turned to dust. What had once been a flame no longer had the will to burn. It had been the only light left in a sky which had once been filled with so many others. Why burn alone? One thing that I now know is that there was always a hidden meaning, a misinterpreted gesture, a certain hope that remained unveiled. I held onto it far too tight. I got lost within the safety of it. I never imagined that the day would ever come when I would lose it completely.

So he went up and there she was, the girl with the pure and innocent dear eyes that he had always searched for and for so long. They agreed to love each other madly…

This was how it was supposed to end. This was supposed to be my answer. From afar, yet for ever. Perhaps on land, perhaps from the clouds. Either way, there would always be a certainty that their words were intended for each other rather than anybody else and that was enough. That was enough to cause them to burn amongst the stars in the night sky and walk along the road of life knowing that they had found each other and nevertheless understood each other on all levels of madness. But there was not enough room for us up in the clouds.

Dear Jack,

I will no longer write to you as long as my words are no longer wanted. But I will never promise not to think of you or miss you when words no longer exist. After all, what more could I possibly want after all of the words that you have so kindly given to me over the years. I may as well gobble them all up and remember you for ever.

May you remember me just the same.


tracing the letters backward

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I hated that part of the book- the one which made all too much sense before its time, while remaining difficult to understand, yet connected the dots perfectly where one would’ve preferred for them to have remained disconnected for just a little while longer. I somehow learnt to appreciate and hold onto a sense of oblivion until the point when it was completely necessary to let go of it. It made room for me to imagine all of the possibilities that were possible to imagine and fantasize about them as if they had already happened and I could live in a constant state of something closely resembling euphoria- the kind that chooses to remain oblivious to things that might alter said state from what it is to anything that it could be, but chooses not to be. It was the only thing that I could think of to be completely void of disappointment.

It seemed so easily read at first. Letters being sent back and forth, seeming to fly through out of space and be shaken around amongst the stars in order to land with such a graceful enchantment. It wasn’t long until the letters became a source of nourishment. Without them, the pages seemed dry. They were a necessity, no longer a want for words on paper. The words needed to be spilled out onto a page and, even more so, they needed to be read. This was the part which I loved. Nourishment. Oblivion. Dot. Dot. Dot. No lines.

Chapters adorned in decadence unravelled a swift romance between worlds and kingdoms and separated voyages, but a lack of depth in understanding remained and there was a certain beauty beneath the simplicity of it. It was an underlying forte of charm and genius that held each word at such a glow without allowing the reader to grasp it completely. But just as one discovers a space which creates a sense of comfort, the author must draw a line and send a meteorite straight for earth. Another line, stars shattering. Another one, the extinction of light altogether.

I finally knew what it meant for silence to be deafening and darkness binding. It is in that moment when the master of this art holds everything you’ve known before tightly in his grasp and holds you captive to the belief that it was your own sense of oblivion that got you tangled in that very web. He ties it up and writes two words in order to resolve the story as if it were only temporary in the first place. Either that, or he leaves without warning, leaving you in…darkness. Think of it as if you’re being presented with an ultimatum. Just as it begins, so it must end. An ending even more dramatic than the beginning, perhaps. That’s for the writer to decide.

I hated that part of the book. Where worlds would collide and stars would fall and letters would end without explanation and we would be left with our own oblivion and trickles of light and a hard, unsympathetic back cover, regardless of the magic which existed in between. It is almost the same as sending a letter and not knowing if it had arrived- the choice to remain uninformed of the answer to this matter leaves one in a space of ignorance which is almost satisfying because there is no want for anything beyond it, but this is a choice which only exists without lines. Letters almost always reach their destination. Maybe if I had connected the dots in the first place, I would’ve known that anything resembling something from another universe or tragic story book would end without a hero and that mine would be the last word.

Oblivion in terms of the stars is something of infinite wonder, but even wonder must exist within time, or without it completely, in order to be anything at all.


untitled

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Before this letter begins, I thought that I should clarify one thing. Somewhere along the line, my words, paragraphs and meaning began to stray a considerable distance away from reality and turned into something that I tend to associate with nonsense. Often stemming from a desire to evolve certain impressions or emotions into a more imaginative state, I fell deeper into the hole thinking that it might become an escape from reality and a place where I could channel my thoughts, feelings, hopes and fears into some sort of wonder, or dream-like world, where nothing had to make sense in order to be real. It was never my intention for my words to be easily understood or for them to be of rational decent, although there is a tender beating heart behind them and their premeditated madness. I would only hope that the reader would be able to distinguish between what makes sense and what doesn’t have to at all in a world that makes near to none. Maybe this time the reality behind them will be a little different.


To whom it may concern (and the readers in between),

I am happy that I have yet to discover who you are.

This was the sentence that played over in my head as I clung to that last string of hope dangling from a distant promise that was once given to me long before I even felt the need to ask for it. An instant rush of peace flooded my veins and I could feel a breath tremor with relief from my lungs. To think that I had forgotten how to trust or, better yet, how to wait for one of life’s most precious gifts. The words couldn’t have come a moment too soon. I was undone.

There had always been the idea of a letter, even the very unfeigned intention of it, the thought that it would be absolutely necessary to write down all of the things which were condensed inside of my heart. We endured various seasons together which caused all of it to condense in the first place- before, it was an innocent flow of hope, but after many months of that fallow and barren winter, the flow of it seemed to have frozen.

The matter was never a question of your existence, but rather a curiosity as to when you might come into existence. The raw, visible, very real kind of existence that instantly causes one to believe that they may have finally found what they had been hoping for all along. I am aware, now more than ever, of the undeniable devoir of enduring time accompanied by a high dose of patience and extensive preparation.

I think that the change occurred when I stopped being disappointed at the idea of not discovering and rather chose to be expectant about the journey of discovery itself. Without complete disregard to current circumstances, above all else, to dwell on contentment rather than dismay.

‘Trust’ is the word that was used. A word that has been so foreign to me until now, but one that I will attempt wholeheartedly to learn again and one by which I hope to be led. For isn’t it better to trust in something than to go along uncertain of anything at all? I am certain of many things and your existence is one of them, but without trust, I will never learn of it, nor discover it.

So I decided not to write any of it down, considering it all rather selfish to spill out so many of my own foolish secrets without knowing any of yours. Although I thought about many things- of hopes and desires which were riddled within my bones and aching to be heard. I thought of them and hoped that they might one day be discovered too, even though they had already been buried within the promise.

I am aware of many things, one being that certain things require time. Time, which so often feels cruel and inconsiderate, yet powerful beyond measure, allowing pasts, presents and futures to become and un-become all at once. Future being where our hearts will collide and where they will encounter the tremendous gift of discovery- one of life’s greatest and most gracious gifts- of how one heart may come to know another and two hearts may become one.

What followed this one, vivid string of words, was the absence of any shadow of a doubt that a time had already been mapped out perfectly when our coordinates would meet. Oh, it shall be a day set apart from the others. Of all of my many thoughts and wonderings, I could think of no more wonderful thing to await than this day and so I thought that I would write one thing down:

How happy I am, in this precise moment and all of the moments to follow it until that day in time, that I have yet to discover, without prior presumption or preference, whoever it is on earth that you are.