It all started with coming across an article on Julian Assange, presently confined to an embassy that he can barely get out of. US government. Enough said. And that had me wondering, what would life like that be?
I would go cuckoo if I can’t go outside. I crave being able to go out and explore a little too much. Like the soul is at unrest, if I rest. And hence I feel the need to keep moving, to keep absorbing places and people and cultures of the world. To look at the world with the eyes of a child. Feel wonder and awe as I take in sights I hadn’t imagined before. To feel the warmth as I submerge myself in a blanket of waves at a sunny beach. To feel the nip of cold air on my nose as I sip on a piping hot cup of tea in the lap of mountains. To feel peace and tranquility when I dip my toes in a freezing cold river. Or burn my skin from the blaze of the almighty sun in the desert.
What would I be, without this wanderlust? Like a tree rooted to the ground?
And how would I be at home, when I am but a wanderer at heart?
Where will my roots be? What will be home?
Or is it okay not to have roots at all? For I might be a bird. A river. A gust of wind. That touches everything and everywhere it goes. That belongs everywhere and yet nowhere?
Who am I really?
A girl who dances with abandon at the music of the wind. Or the girl who hides under the cover of an Austen. The one who has unflinching resolve to take on the world. Or the one whose silence is unbroken even in the midst of light, mindless banter. The one who is unwilling to form bonds easily. Or the one who loves with a passion unrivaled. The one who craves to travel to strange lands every minute. Or the one who wants a foundation. Yet shuns the very idea and longs to fly. The one who always, always keeps her mind hidden. But wants to give ink to her thoughts for the world to see.
Who am I really?
This jumble of paradoxes?
This combination of chaos and tranquility?
Who am I really?
I don’t know when or how I’ll find out.
But an interesting journey it’ll be.
