Thule, Greenland

I sit, motionless, listening to the beat of my heart swell in the back of my throat. 

Thump. Thump. 

I've had less than an hours sleep but I feel as if I've been awake for days. I can't shake the feeling I'm forgetting something, someone. The empty terminal appears to be filled with nerves, anticipation, excitement, apprehension and exhaustion. I'm the only one here and my own tension could be easily severed with a butter knife. 

I can't believe it is truly hapening. Today. Right now. Butterflies are an understatement. Am I ready? Am I prepared for this? Have I got everything? Will I be okay? Too late. 

As advised by a good friend, I attempt to calm my knotted stomach by humming "every little thing" and for some reason, it is taking the gleaming edge off of my nerves. 

Every little thing, is gonna be alright. 

If I had to name today, I would call this the day of an endless morning and then an endless night. The sun, sitting neatly above the horizon, floating, yet remaining motionless. I waited hours upon hours for it to move but it didn't happen. The sky was a beautiful spectrum of light, fading from grey rolling stratocumulus into a vibrant pink and lastly into a soul calming yellow with darkened streaks of cirrus. I take a moment to absorb the last few rays of sunlight for the next few months. 

I could not think of a better final sight as we pushed forward into the darkness and kissed the light behind, it was beautiful.