Equipoise of Scandinavia

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          Before my oculi laid those tranquil wilds, whose glory did vanquish the anonymity that once I cloaked myself in. Past fates like broken records themselves did break at the sight of this allure. Betwixt the whooshes of Earth's breaths did my head fork its path; a benevolently blowing breeze bypassed the predetermined cold of my heart that harbored within myself. I pushed forward, and the enchanting entrance enveloped every aspect of my being. The air I breathed was livening and reviving. The keyholes to my soul were now branded with the reflection that the burning, beckoning sun cast upon the frigid, blanched terrain that I traversed. My footprints in the glazed, glistening, white frost were like ink drops staining a parchment of seemingly, pretentious self-deterrence, for beatific bewitchment beheld in the land I saw could never be rivaled. The sanctifying purity pacified my qualms and quelled my scruples. The snow's crunch below my feet and a stick's crack at the heel of my boot supplemented my newfound proclivity to venture forth deeper into the far eldened wilderness, for every step was a fascinating new memory. Again the air rushed past me, and the lively chill awakened my bones that had, hitherto, laid dormant, having waited for an apposite place to call home.

             The volatility and erroneousness in the altitude of the grounds provided fjords that were bastions who defended and preserved the site I wandered wonderingly. Splash! The water deep below in the fjord's river crashed itself against the cliffside's phalanxes, sending echoes of a long forlorn bagarre screaming to the surface. Thrice now the breeze swept by me. On its currents, the hoary, primeval perennials crepitated while the birds pierced the air with veritas in their canzone which enchanted, with felicitous freedom, the fae-like forest. The forest spoke in emancipating tongues that did iterate to liberate and make literate their behests of ridding filthy defile from the conduit flesh of the terra that disseminated their roots with steady viands and commissariats. As an unworthy suitor, I stood in their midst, the beauty of God's Creation and its latent potential was shown through to me. I terminated the waylaying of this peregrination I was aboard and trekked forward. The snowdrift that I toppled fell away with a muffled poof over neighboring brazened brush. As my hands swayed through the granulated clouds that semi-transfixed me, the snow gleamed and coruscated like a supernova of opaline crystals. These supernovae, or celestial revenants (for in the cosmos, most light dawning upon Earth, excluding the sun, originated from long dead derivation that has long seen its last dawn), muted all excess sound from permeating past the auricles of my ears. A rushed stillness swathed me that bedighted the aura of the taiga with an eerie charm. The faint aroma of fresh pine grew and settled about me, and unfathomably multitudinous ranges of mountains crested the horizons from my vantage. Indeed it is a poetic juxtaposition how such an effulgent, lambent locus is related to a season of hibernation when death is perceived and represented with darkness. The shallow canopy above was a blanket from the sky that yielded exactly the requisite shade to mollify my eyes.

          Time was as frozen as the air itself, yet the sun still streaked the sky with warm colors in its wake to juxtapose the further frosting and cooling permafrost. Without smog suffocating that which gives life to imbue our veins, the window to the cosmos laid ajar, casting speckles across the sky in endless multitude. Once again, the cold matched the cold like ground and sky, and navy blue drowned the welkin in darkness, and the moon was a proxy for the sun. One could not formulate a conjecture to what I possibly could have descried. The daytime brought me revival most assuredly; however, the night brought life to my surroundings. The moon illuminated the waters of the fjords. As if swimming in my eyes, the spectral incandescence of an elven conurbation cavorted in bliss and kindredness, and I was the cynosure of the idyllic, halcyon soirée and dance the land was hosting. New brushstrokes scintillated the atmosphere with vibrant, ardent artwork. So forth, they shimmered and frolicked in the sky as jocund eidolons sewing neon ribbons right in front of my eyes. These ribbons, made of the firmament's finest fabric, fell through the air, weaving a knot to top the present that this night was. The aurora borealis lit the secluded, boreal setting, casting cascading shades of mint and magenta onto the loose snow, making it look like a disco floor that deserved to be the limelight. Indeed it was that the celestial dashes were nothing short of phantasmagoria. Under the starlit sky, a nightly breeze overhead susurrated through the arboreality like jocular, otherworldly sirens producing a captivating effect that jostled my very soul.

Overall, with a rift that espies the heavens open above me from dawn to twilight and snow as white as diamonds, the taiga and fjords that populate Scandinavia are magical nexuses that affix our world to inconceivable splendor. Peace flows over such drastic land, and such circumvention from modern political and environmental dilemmas such as corruption and pollution indeed percolates from thence. The stillness of the air and the magic about the place precipitated hope and ebullience in me, as the life beheld therein exemplified how a long, bygone, immovable isthmus to the past may move us reciprocally.