I clearly remember the looks on the faces of my friends and family when I told them about this trip, as well as the reasons why I wanted to leave: to write, to isolate myself from everything and everyone, and to discover myself a little more.

Tight lips, raised eyebrows, and eyes that, for an instant, opened wide, expressing very clear judgments: the most common included "but why would you do that?", "what are you going all the way up there for?" and so on. One comment in particular, often said for its neutral meaning and to avoid making a firm statement, made me reflect a lot afterwards: "It takes courage to isolate yourself like that." A phrase that, upon reflection, really stirred my sixth sense, along with the irrepressible urge to understand the reasons behind why that person said it. In some cases, I sensed coldness: you're bordering on recklessness, it's a waste of time, (especially at this stage in life when you should be focused on doing only constructive things!), stop living with your head in the clouds, in a dream world.

In other cases, however, I sensed respect, though it sprouted from a veiled sadness that, as the years go by, I increasingly perceive in the people I meet; a genuine feeling, that respect for my choice, but born from minds tired from the frenzy to which the Western system has chained us all.

All of us. A land of dim eyes which, paradoxically, ignited the flame that pushed me to leave.

So, I took a break from the world. From my world, at least.

I boarded a plane and moved for a few months to the island of Vannøya, in the far north of Norway. A choice made in the heart of the Polar Night, the period when the sun never rises above the horizon. I chose the darkness because, quite simply, I had another darkness to contemplate. Always my own, which, by a sort of syllogism, I thought would be the best environment to face this challenge.