Fifth Journey Day 34: Woolen Air
Date: June 11, 2025
Location: Tromsø, Norway
This afternoon, I walked uphill on a winding path toward Prestvannet Lake. The city emptied quickly. One moment I was among quiet houses with yellow walls and toy-like balconies. The next, I saw a wide view of water, low hills, and the soft quiet of early summer snow patches on higher ground. There was a slight wetness in the air that wasn't rain, but it felt like it was gently touching your face.
The lake was calm. It's not frozen, and it's not rippling—it's just held. I stood for a long time without saying anything or moving much. I just listened to the sound of wind through short pine trees and the occasional footsteps of a distant walker. The silence wasn't empty. It had a sound like breath being held—not anxiously, but attentively.
There was a gull flying in circles overhead, flying low and then climbing back up, as if it wasn't sure what to do. I kept watching it even after I realized I wasn't thinking anymore. This kind of pause is rare. It happens when the mind stops doing its usual small tasks and lets the body rest.
I sketched with a dry graphite pencil on thin paper, making loose, wide lines. I'm not trying to capture the exact view; I'm trying to capture the feel of space — how it felt like it was pressing gently at the edges, how light seemed to smudge against form.
As I came down the path, I passed children wearing woolen hats. They were laughing and playing with something small, like a rock or a bug. I didn't hear the words. It didn't matter.
When I got back to my place, I made a cup of tea and stood at the window. It's still light outside, even though the clock says it's night. The city feels like it's holding its breath — not in waiting, but in presence. I feel softer for it.
