I awake sunk into a soft brown couch, its cushions casting a spell over my body that keeps me from moving. Looking around, I slowly remember where I am.
A little apartment. Iceland. Right. The most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.
Slowly I get up and go to the window. Outside, it has been light all night, almost convincing me to stay up and see how close to darkness it gets. The sky emits a grayish-blue light on Reykjavik.
I shiver. It’s July, but it’s cold. I had forgotten what 45 degrees feels like.
The hills are a striking green against the gray sky. I peer out of a rental car window, trying to glimpse the elves – a myth, but I believe it. I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t believe it. Legend says that little elves live under the rolling hills, their houses invisible to the naked eye. Everything here is like a dream.
I arrive, and suddenly I’m waiting patiently to be engulfed in smoke. Boom. The geyser shoots up into the sky, and all I see is gray. I’ve never been happier. I turn, looking all around me. The mist is so thick nothing can puncture it. I can barely see my hands in front of me.
I’ve been searching for magic my whole life. Have I found it? Has a piece of this place grasped onto me as I left?
Arriving back at the apartment that night, the daze grows stronger. Has the furniture put me under some kind of spell? Is the couch trying to sink me deep enough that I’ll never get out?
This magical place seems to suck the power out of a fully charged phone, untouched for hours. It makes me feel safe when I should be scared. Maybe that’s how they keep the magic secret.
I feel something in that little room, but I don’t know if it is a warning or an invitation.
There is beauty in the ugly, happy in the sad, calm in the fear. To me, the Reykjavik waterfalls are where the mermaids live. The hills are where the elves hide. There is magic everywhere I turn – it grasps onto me. My inner child grasps even tighter.
With wonder always comes defeat. I’m going to see the most beautiful places, make the craziest things. I might even drive myself mad. But what’s life without the thrill?
The eyes in the paintings on the walls seem to follow me as I walk across the room. As I sit on the couch, its power takes over and my eyes become dull, but I’m not scared. Like the mist, nothing can puncture me.