Fifth Journey Day 21: Lines Without Destination

Date: May 29, 2025
Location: Akureyri, Iceland

The day went by slowly, as if it were a drawing made with watered ink. I walked along the harbor path, wrapped in my coat, with my fingers in my gloves, and my notebook pressed against my ribs. The fjord stretched calmly beside me — not still, but deliberate. Small ripples moved across its surface. They looked like thought-lines or old fabric breathing beneath light.

Boats were moving around in the water. The boat's red hulls were rusty, and its ropes were old. Every so often, a metal part of the mast creaked. The smell of salt and iron hung in the air. I passed a boy riding a bike and a woman carrying laundry. They blended in with the background so well that they looked like brushstrokes: firm, exact, but not loud.

The path led me to the botanical garden. It's not the season for flowers yet, but there were some green shoots. Mosses grow on the edge of the stone. The trees are bare and just starting to thaw. I didn't take any notes. I just stood and watched. It's the kind of watching where your body relaxes and your thoughts come to you slowly.

I thought about stillness. I thought about it not as a lack, but as a state of listening. I didn't think it was necessary to explain what I was hearing. It was enough to be there, surrounded by the quiet presence of mountains and water.

That evening, I sat by a window and ate soup. It was lamb and herbs, and it was hot and heavy with steam. I jotted down some notes on a piece of paper that I had almost forgotten was in my pocket. I wrote one line without thinking: Sometimes, the horizon isn't a distance at all. It's a quiet place where you can't see any particular destination.

I don't know what it means yet. I'll paint from there.