Visual Journal of Time — June 17, 2024
Stromboli, Tyrrhenian Sea — 9:00 a.m.
The ship carved a pale wake through the deep blue, a single gesture of motion across an ancient stillness. Ahead, Stromboli rose from the sea like a sleeping animal—its flanks rough with memory, its crown veiled in a low, breathing cloud. The island seemed both near and unreachable, a place that existed more in time than in space.
The morning air carried salt and silence. I stood at the rail, watching the horizon slip behind the smoke-colored ridge. The sea didn’t resist; it yielded. Light spilled gently across the water, catching fragments of turquoise where the propellers stirred.
There was no sound of eruption, no drama, only the steady pulse of the engines and the knowledge that beneath that mountain, fire still lived. I felt something kindred in that—quiet intensity hidden under calm surface. The body moves on, the spirit burns low but sure.
As the island began to fade, I thought of how departures are never entirely departures. Some landscapes stay anchored within you, smoldering softly, like Stromboli in the sea.
WE&P by: EZorrillaMc.
Travel in Life 
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