Here’s the trail for me.
It leads to Buðaklettur, and then west into the November sun.But make no mistake, it passes through the mind along the way. Imagine, walking through your deepest thoughts. When I walked here last November, it took all my strength to put one foot in front of another. I found it nearly impossible to keep walking. I wouldn’t call it being lost, or being in danger of being lost. I wouldn’t even call it being found. It sure was good not to be alone. I’ve never made a journey like this, although this was only a small part of the journey that is to be made. What that journey is, I don’t know. Well, “I” doesn’t know, but the rest of me sure does. This is the path.This is a dangerous place. A place where the path travels where wakefulness and sleep take on different forms.If you step off the path, what then?

The question is nonsensical. To stay on the path is to step off of it. To step off of it is to lose it.

Go with someone you love. Go together. Hold on to each other. You are your line back home. I’m not from Iceland, but I know home when I see it.  The wind blows there. At 45 m/s. Well, sometimes. This time.
It is a place to lose yourself, and then, as a completely different person, to lead it back home. I can’t explain it. I am only drawn there, like a beast on a line.

On a narrow path. Of blood. 

Of mind.I can’t explain it. I don’t want to.

This is poetry when it has left all words behind.

This is the Buðahraun.