21 June 2016 — On the Way to Iceland

by Shaun Terry

Very early morning

This morning, I saw the most beautiful thing I think I’ve ever seen.

Pale clouds of magenta and coral and the blue of irises all bled into one another, creating a chromatic gradient; indifferent puffs of sweet, light, bright cotton above an otherworldly landscape.

The mountains were like dark chocolate chunks, with coconut fragments sprinkled conservatively across their tops. Between some mountains ran a frozen, hardened river of foggy blue gemstone, slowly, gently breaking down the mountains, as tiny glacial chunks floated on the periphery to one side of the mountains and an ocean of snow began to consume the chocolate peaks on the other side.

Eventually, the snow would stretch to either horizon, the consistency and color of freshly whipped cream. The mountains occasionally poked their heads above the surface like sharpened flint: earthen arrowheads penetrating the cream.

In the end, the little chocolate stones fall apart in the icy aquamarine ocean.


Slightly less early morning

My eyes did a funny thing. After reading my book for a few minutes, I looked up, out of the window. When I saw the image outside, it appeared wavy, and I figured that maybe the glass was cheap or somehow weathered, causing distortions. But then, for no reason that I could explain, I suddenly realized that it wasn’t the glass causing the illusion and I focused on the waves themselves. I could pick out the faded shapes of indecipherable words I’d been reading, thanks to the early morning light coming in through the glass.

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