Writing to you - 60° 9′ 45″ N, 21° 33′ 45″ E

This light moves straight forward through day and night. It carries my hand that holds the pen, it carries my thoughts towards you. It gathers inside me, creating space and energy as if I was the solar panel. I am just hearing the environment like the moon above, hidden behind the mountains of clouds. To listening the August mornings by the east window of the house, to listening long afternoons in the sweet fragrance of coniferous forests. The trees, pines, spruces, birches, alders, junipers, they are present. They really are. I slowed down the speed of my Corolla, stopped the car and stepped out. The surroundings came closer, the details of rocks, leaves, damp grass. The time changed to a different dimension, it swallowed me to pet and care for trunks and branches. The shelter of trees is real. Various greens make the eyes grateful to see. I leaned to the rock that grounded my feet among the patience of lichens. Beard moss hung on the branch beside like a rare blossom. My gaze was free to look for the sky that lingered with pink and light blueberry blue. Planets whispered loud. They resonated on my skin like south-east winds. I imagined how the backdoors of the past were burnt at the cores of closest stars. When the Sun, Sirius and Moon shaped a syzygy, I asked to rewrite a dream. 

The smell of gasoline slowly vanished from my memory. The delicate scent of coniferous forest hovered in the warm air. It reminded me of diving into the present moment, fully, like I was smelling happiness from your hair like a dog. Staying awake until the light-yellow dawn. This half imaginary sensation filled my near future. It was enough, I realized. The blooming heathers around were my roses. The reindeer moss seemed as fragile as the pointers of a wristwatch. Above doves catapulted through the sky like heavy feather bullets. I looked up to their faith. Next to the notebook a moose fly dropped its wings to my right arm. Bright golden miniature wings glimmered on the surface of black fabric. I watched my steps as I continued back from the forest to the narrow gravel road. The red Corolla had disappeared. It was okay, I thought, it brought me here, anyway. I let it go. I walked deeper into the area in search of the Retais lake. I longed for water, its mirrors and companion, its slowly dancing reeds. I forgot the map I had studied. The sun was behind thick white masses of clouds. A butterfly skittered around. Yet the compass points were drawn inside of me direct as the crow flies. I continued the path, and the gentle wind tickled my face. Then the weather changed, and I heard the sudden laughter of a seagull. A horizon unfolded as the old bird flew ahead. Behind the pine trees the surface of water shone with millions of lights. 

I greeted the sea.