Strynefjellet

 
In Strynefjellet, one feels the vulnerability our ancestors must have resented then, when skin on skin did little to shelter them from the fierceness of their gods.

One cannot hide from the frost among the congealed peaks.

There seemed fitting to depose a memory, nestled in a crag where it froze upon touch. Soon it was sealed in ice and snow, never to be found again.

The sense of abandonment is strong.
There is a feeling of loss and uncertainty.
It is a place beyond danger, beyond peace.

Words have no weight here, and names no longer bear any meaning, even its own disperses, windswept.

There are two forms of life: trees, and snow, and they cannot be told apart, are one and the same, having no bearing within our sphere, the experience of them only affecting our senses.

It is a desolate rift in every direction, where no one should have to go unless a memory needs be cradled in its lap.

When I drove away Strynefjellet closed behind me, deepest night curtaining all light, the snow a mirror to that night, the blizzard raging indiscriminately.