Morning of the 26th I wake up from two cats jumping on my bed, and a phone conversation of the only roomie left behind in my friend’s appartment who came home from night shift at a hotel. I get up and stumble down the stairs to fumble for the cat food with half open eyes and two eager creatures dancing around my feet. My man leaves to go get food for later at another friend’s house, I make coffee and heat up chicken tikka from yesterday. Its the most quiet it has been the whole year, I’ve spent 48 hours in Pjs and cuddles. We could have rushed to be with my family, I know my man would have gone to his people if they hadn’t been so far, but I’ve gravitated towards peace again this year, acknowledging how precious it is to have 48 pristine and stressless hours, just this once a year.
Descending we pass through two layers of impenetrable cloud, at one point we are completely embraced by these two, white above and white below.
Two humans in huge bodies sit down beside me, I feel a chock wave from their energy, imagine their past lives as mighty warriors, I need to translate their behavior if I want to survive.
Don’t recognize my voice and the brusk sounds it makes when I speak.
Wear two pairs of socks, boots, two pairs of pants, two tops, a polar and ski jacket and bike to the bridge, try not to remember too vividly the bright sun sparkles in blue waters; the sky has a lid on it.
I was pushed closely up against other people’s bodies in the metro in Rio everyday, never alone, it was never ever quiet, but Copenhagen feels mind numbingly intimidating: Everyone are too close to me, unsafely so. People are so different.
I’m sinking into a soft pillow of peace, dreamy absence, so tired, my body wakes me just before dawn so I can hear the birds from the balcony – a tiny light in the sky, a little hole in the clouds, etheric beauty.
Put my ear to the ground and hear the unmistakeable deep trembling noise of peace rolling towards me: a tsunami wave, ready to absorb me. I stare wide eyed into empty air, then close them, and listen.