Sitka Day 10: The Death of Time
Here, I watch as fog exhales between mountains, lifting around islands in constant illusion.
In a place where entire mountains can hide, where one minute the horizon is there and the next it is sopped in, where the surrounding ocean outsizes the island an immeasurable number of times–where does one go to gain perspective?
Perhaps like time in Sitka, perspective also cannot be trusted. Better to greet each day as if it were your first: to assume that where there are clouds there will be mountains and that where there is water there might soon be solid land. Bury time at sea, so that together with the tides it comes and goes by its own good clock, always tugging a little at the mind as if to say: Now you’re here. Now you’re gone. It’s all the same.