When I remember to forget

In the corners of my day, in that twilight time between true sleep and actual consciousness, I am back in Iceland. I walk along the ocean in Reykjavík, reliving my desktop background. When I wake up I find myself touching my hair, convinced that it’s encrusted in salt from the Blue Lagoon.

This week marks my one-year anniversary of being back in the country, and it feels both as though it’s been far longer than that and as though it’s been no time at all. Heading to my parents’ house for dinner and a cat visit, it occurs to me that my life since I returned has been speeding up: twelve months ago I got back from Africa; six months ago I got a job; three months ago I moved into my own apartment; a month and a half ago I entered into a relationship; three weeks ago I was in Iceland. It’s as though I’ve been rolling down a hill, constantly accelerating, gaining momentum.

But this week, despite piercingly clear fall weather, I’ve been tired. Downright weary, really. Maybe it’s the weekend I spent in New York, maybe it’s Daylight Savings, maybe it’s that I finally hit a tree on my way down the hill. No matter what it is, I’m glad that my destination this weekend is a place I always think of as restful. And I’m glad, and sorry, that now that I’m back from Iceland I have no travel plans, no deep desire for a particular destination.

Maybe America will be enough, for a while.

But I sort of doubt it.