wafer walls

Imagination lives in a cup with wafer walls. When storms outside wreck and ravage the roads, it runs over the delicate sugary edges and spills its sparkly shimmering liquid all over the grayish floor of reality. I live on the bottom of a green lagoon in Northern Iceland. Northern Iceland is Very Far North. It doesn’t really snow here, only when we are trying to drive. Then, the white woolen shawl covers the black of the asphalt. Snowflakes shoot their fireworks at the windshield, thick and light, reflecting the Northern Lights of our night vision beams. Glaciers become more majestic and stately in the spiraling darkness of the white winds. The young mountains and rocks happily accept the gentle support of this icy weather when it smothers them in soft lava of winter and tucks them caringly in quiet.

I let the wind slide me in my thin-soled shoes across a frozen pond. I can feel its long elegant arms around me, leading me into a waltz, allowing me to trace the names of my lovers, new and old. I notice that among those names I also periodically spell out a name of a girl, who is not me. One day I will carelessly trace it twice to fall through the ice. And that would be the end of my imagination.