Let's leave the world behind

I’m feeling like a butterfly inside a plane. I’ve been a graduate for almost one year and the question that’s been on everyone’s minds except my own is, “What are you going to do next?”

Sometimes I give fake answers that please society. I’ll say, “Maybe I’ll do a masters after a year of traveling.” Other times I tell people half of a truth, “I don’t know.” The real answer is that there’s something pulling on me, trying to get me to sell all my belongings and start living the life of a nomad. I want to go to Italy and see where I end up next. I don’t want to be shackled to a nine to five job, I don’t need to be rich, but I want to be free.

My father came to Europe with nothing but a guitar and some clothes. The money he did have got stolen before he could travel to London, his final destination. Life gave him two options: go back to Buenos Aires or take a plunge into the unknown and stay.

His story has always inspired me. Yet every time I think about taking the plunge I feel my shackled feet holding me back. The key is in my hand, or maybe I swallowed it, threw it away, or buried it somewhere a long time ago. I am being pulled into a great unknown but my feet are afraid, or maybe my hands are.

Years ago a therapist told me it was brave of me to get on a plane, this was after I told her about my fear of flying. I still say a prayer before take-off. I used to get mini panic attacks every time the plane hit turbulence. I frowned at her comment, “I want to travel, for that I’ll have to fly.”

I’m not afraid of death, but living makes my hands tremble.

I want to sell everything I own except for my notebooks, typewriter, DVD collection and move somewhere far away. A place that only exists in my mind, but one day it will be right in front of me. I’ll take a picture and keep that in a journal. By then I’ll have gone off the grid, social media an afterthought.

I want to throw out my phone and close my eyes so I don’t have to look at the world around me. The world in flames, the world drowning, crumbling. I will be safe in my cosy home someplace near the sea. I wake up to the sound of chirping birds and I bake my own bread and have a garden and chickens. I don’t think we have any control over when the world ends, anyways.

For now I’ll have to be stuck here for a little while longer. There’s a lot to learn from this rat race, these prisons people call jobs and society. There’s shackles around my hands and their grip is tight and cruel. I put these shackles there myself, I can leave whenever I want. The key is in my hands but I’m scared of falling into the unknown.

My family lineage is always on the run. If I take a DNA test It’ll show every part of the world except for maybe Asia. I love the idea of southern Europe, the tranquil mediterranean life. I move there and my children will have yet another identity to anguish over. If I am a mestizen what will they be? Ultimate ultimate mestizens? I already feel like I don’t belong anywhere I go—what about them?

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