Waking up by the Icelandic mountains was quiet and sweet.

”I’ve had dreams which felt soft as wool”, I remember thinking shortly after waking up. It may have been because of the constant sights of sheep, literally by the thousands in just a few days driving around Southeast Iceland, that made me think of wool. Or the dreams were probably really just that soft.

Looking out the window at 6h35am I remembered having these blue tinted dreams, wool whispers that kept me going through the night. One cliché that has always annoyed me, silence having a sound, finally made sense; I could hear it because it felt so organic. Silence felt warm, almost pulsating. It was quiet enough for me to realise a very scary thought — that I don’t dream anymore. At all. Today was the first dream I had in a very long time, or at least the first I could remember. The life in London has, not figuratively, but literally, killed my dreams.

I allowed my mind to listen to itself a bit more, trying to hold the memory of what it feels like to remember a dream. I quietly made myself some coffee while the mountains announced their wake-up call with heavy rain. My sheep-like blue cotton brain was trying to tell me something important all this time — and I just haven’t been listening anymore.