There is a certain texture about a day that begins with slight greyish opaque clouds and nippy air, you notice how silence gradually turns colder as you becomes aware of the day’s atmosphere. It is one of the few calm and tranquil aspects of the landscapes I am made to experience here in this lonely village, up in the Highlands of Sweden. As I awake to the everyday, not a few number of those mornings turn out to be just like that, there is a quietness that engulfs one and the noiseless streets and still trees suddenly become silent partners in a framed still life.
It is these mornings that make me realize how common and everyday my life is, amidst the blue skies behind the thick clouds drifting away to unknown welkins leaving only its humidity in the immovable air. Once in a while this quietude is torn asunder by the passing of a car on its way to somewhere, leaving behind a disconcerted and deeply in thought mexican man who awakens from a deafening and pacifying atmosphere.
I turn my gaze to the window where the pine trees are forming rows upon rows of trees in an up and down triangle spike like form and a wide open space for cultivation is visible, a few stacks of rolled hay in white plastic dot the field, the green seems wet as it is a deep dark verdure giving one the impression that there is an element of water at hand in its looks.
I slowly walk towards the front porch and I feel the wind caressing me with its crispy fresh hand as the chime sounds its metal clinging to evoke a chinese, japanese, oriental paradaise some distance away and I feel how the temperature is far from mild, closer to fresh yet chilly enough coming from indoors. This very texture brings to mind a sort of seclusion, a fragile apparent solitude that surrounds my senses and which can be broken any second; life is such, still and raucous and me inbetween.