The definition of peace. Should be simply—I’ve lived it the
last four months. Nothing says peace more than the absolute silence which stems
from being in Kangerlussuaq after the Copenhagen flight for the day leaves—being
in a fjord, mountains on all sides, no more than 400 people living in town all
inside, the midnight sun softly cast down. I knew leaving there I was going to
back to a different world; trading snowcapped mountains and only hearing your
breath & the wind & the water for the commotion and bustle of crowds
and traffic in both Copenhagen and all else.
-and
yet-
-seeing the first city lights below our plane was strange as
seeing the vastness of nothing, but-
-walking and driving through Christianshavn stuck in traffic
with Malik was unnerving, yet-
-sitting now in one of the city Plads, watching as more
people pass by in ten minutes than are in half the country I’ve been living, hearing
different languages and cars across cobblestone than a flute bard, smelling not
the nothingness in Greenland I’ve become accustomed to but garbage and crisp
leaves, sweat and caramelized almonds; but-
-but with the warm air on my neck a sensory overload lashing
at me, and jet lag fighting at my head-
-and yet this is peace, in its own way.
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