Arctic
Dreamers. You are never sure of when you are. The only sure thing is the perpetual day. Day in day out.
Arctic spring is a time of birth. Not of flower or bee or bird. But of the day.
The sun returns to a land of ice and rock. A land where man barely stands.
And as the sea melts and returns to the oceans the pioneers once again set out in search of the bluest of ice. The morning sky (or is it midnight, who’s to know) and the sea are one. Their weight unknowable. As the boats cut through the fiords the mystic Fulmars follow, the Guillemots dive to the icy waters, where man has no dominion.
Dreamers. Only when the ice wind hits and pulls you do you begin to awake. The sea and ice. The ice and rock. You dream of them. But they not of you. For you are just a moment and they are eternal. The Arctic Fox watches you, knows you. But to you it is a movement, a phantom. You can never really know him. For he is the land and the ice and you, you are the dream.
In this land where man barely stands a change comes. When the man in his far away land punches his timecard there is no hole made in the card, but in the ice of his dream. The ice bear winces to the sound in these far away lands. The dreamer dreams an ice to melt.
Dreamers. As you stand on top of the world. Bathed in the midnight sun. You are no longer part of the dream. For now you are real.
Now for the first time you exist. You no longer dream of ice or of rock or of a sea. For here you are. You are now the Arctic. At last you are free.
