I lay back lazily on bed with my dog-earred, yellowing copy of Jack Kerouac’s ‘On the Road’ held firmly in my sweating palms. I’m reading absent-mindedly with my thoughts wondering to my dear husband who is hundreds of miles away on a long business at Ivory Coast. My eyes skim along the lines till they seem to focus on a particular line; it reads: “There was nowhere to go but everywhere, so just keep on rolling under the stars”.
I catch my breath mid-sentence, my heart beats faster and I ponder silently on the words. Where have my wanderlust gone? I always believe that the best thing is to travel and lose oneself in a foreign country and immerse oneself in the culture and beauty of the land and the people who live on it. I believe I can find beauty where people can’t seem to notice it even in a God-forsaken land. Yet I startle myself with the realization that I have become miserable, consumed by endless work struggles and disputes, when there’s a golden opportunity waiting just by the corner.