It has been two weeks. I’m finally unloading the belongings safely tucked in my backpack and I place them, one after the other, into a closet. On the left, the sports bras, next to a bag full of underwear. On the upper shelf, I place a pair of leggings, four short bottoms, and ten tops. On the right, my running shoes, flipflops, raincoat, a scarf, and a sweater. I step back and gaze at the wardrobe overflowing with memories. The white skirt I wore on my first day in Namibia. It was clean for a few minutes before I climbed onto the back of a pickup truck, three dogs jumping along, and went for a sunset drive. On the hanger, my button-up appears white, but I smile at the yellowed shoulders, where Thai sunscreen and sand left their marks. I glance at the flowy orange pants, which I know will remain there for most of the summer, even though they looked, and made me feel, gorgeous in the Namibian dunes. Their shape accentuates a roundness in my hips I only seem able to embrace when traveling. On the road, the color season I belong to did not matter as much as the thousands of shades surrounding me. My untamed hair was proof of lifelong memories, not evidence of carelessness. The dark circles under my eyes were testimonies to long nights spent watching the stars and swallowing life, not a requirement for cover-up make-up.
I store away the emptied backpack, now heavier than when I carried it across Ecuador. The load of responsibility thickens around me until it feels like I am inside a bubble, aimlessly drifting in the ocean. It’s silent inside this cocoon, the pressure drowning my thoughts and emotions. It is not the quiet of birds’ chips and wind whispers that overtook me in the deserts of Namibia and Argentina. Then, my thoughts were absorbed by the scenery, my reflections were dancing in the endless plains, and time had become an abstract concept rhythmed by the sun's infinite journey. The calming emptiness dissipated distractions like cold water on a hot stone, leaving no possibilities for my brain cells to fire. There was nothing for your mind to grasp. There was just…this.
The drumming of a car pulls me back to reality, where the neighboring houses and the towering trees feel overwhelming. Their engraved presence is like an iron thread for my brain to grip. Find a job. Pursue hobbies that make you look fit and accomplished while looking cute enough to make friends. Find a healthy routine. Become social but don’t overspend your energy. Succeed in your career. Pretend your mental health is fine with it. Get a partner. Buy the matching bag and shoes. Get the job. Save enough to buy a house and travel. Travel. My mind is scrambling for a to-do list already put on paper, and I know that tonight sleep won’t find me. The quick and peaceful rest found underneath the stars is long gone and with it the calm that inhabited me.
My fingers yearn to reach for my backpack, to carry me in the passenger seat with the wind messing my hair and the music lifting my heart. I can still taste the freedom of infinite roads as it cracked the coffin of pressure and routine I was trapped in. It’s like the glassy towers of New York City, the windows reflecting the sun onto an urban jungle of skyscrapers and blue shades. But they were cold to the touch, their insides hidden in the dark and ignorant of the racing workers seeking the next item on their to-do list, routine, and social validation scheme. Grand Central Station was a swarm of polished souls spinning the wheel of life, yet its frantic pulse felt hollow compared to the vast, silent emptiness of the Namibian desert. Why hide the smiles, the emotions, the judgments, and the wild dreams underneath a polished surface?
Perhaps the bubble slowly entrapping me is a shield against relentless expectations of perfection. Whether self-imposed or from society, its shiny surface is a play-pretend of beauty and success, one that suffocates connection, creativity, and life itself.
I am tired of polished facades, I crave dusty roads lined with wildlife, sorrowful tears that somehow lighten the heart, and messy, spontaneous moments of connection. I would rather wear mismatched jewelry telling stories of travels than a curated outfit.