Returning to civilization from the solitude of Greenland, after three or four weeks living in a tent, is difficult. Up there in the north, I experience something that no longer exists here, at home: silence. Perhaps it is precisely this sensitivity that draws me back into solitude again and again.

The essay I recently read in a magazine is about noise sensitivity. It’s as if I had written it myself: I am a noise-sensitive person. I can only work in a quiet environment; even a noisemaker in the same room—a simple housefly, for example—throws me off. I react differently to sounds from outside: I find church bells pleasant, and I can tolerate the laughter of children from the nearby playground to a certain extent. Lawn mower and leaf blower noise makes it impossible for me to focus even on basic tasks.(Das Magazin, 2026, Noise Complaint)

The overwhelming silence of Greenland’s landscapes, characterized by rocks, water, and ice, is so profound that it occasionally disturbs my sleep. While in my sleeping bag, I hear a rustling noise coming from inside my head. Sometimes a bird flies over the tent, or the rain drums in a steady rhythm on the outer tent. It’s just that: no man-made sounds, no phone pings, only silence.

The next morning, sitting on a rock for a moment and watching the ice sheet on the opposite side of a fjord, or climbing up to its edge, is a moment that should never end. This is when I find my peace.

I fall into a hole once I’m back home. Again and again. The world has moved beyond being simply complicated. The relentless cacophony from urban environments, workplaces, and public spaces drives me to seek refuge from the ceaseless noise we produce.