infinity

Home at the end of the world

 It is Tuesday, the 21st of March, 11 am. I am sitting in an old armchair in a place that I call home whilst looking over to the sea from my window. The weather is calm. It is snowing outside even though spring started yesterday. It feels like the beginning of a fairytale. But my time here in Infinity is about to be over. After spending a week on this island in complete solitude, I feel at peace. Eighteen and a half years ago, I was three years old, it was autumn. The only way to the island was with an old Soviet army truck that had to drive through the sea. I can't remember much of the trip, but I do have my first-ever memory from that time. I remember sitting on top of a wood pile in the corner of the main house. Specifically looking at the fireplace, which was done by a potter who went quite literally insane because of the silence that Infinity holds. I believe what I felt at the time was that Infinity is this imaginary world that does not really exist. Like Alice in Wonderland, when she opened the door to paradise. My door was that truck, my paradise was that island. That has now carried on to my adulthood. I can't spend all my time here, but it is my favourite place on earth. The island has stayed the same throughout all these years. This faraway place from everything and everyone. A place where you can submerge yourself from reality. A place where you can do whatever and whenever you want it. No rules.