I just want to take a walk, to go as far away as my thoughts can take me. It’s been a long, heavy day at work, and staying a minute more will make my head burst. I want to pour out everything I have between my ears. So I close my laptop, pull my hoodie over my head, and step outside.
I take the direction of the railway. I love that path: calm, almost sacred in its stillness. Here, human noise fades, and Earth returns to its natural rhythm. But it’s a strange balance for me: a few hundred meters behind me is town, loud and restless; ahead, the quiet village, where time seems to slow down. I belong to neither and to both.
The railway stretches endlessly. It’s so inviting, almost like it understands the desire in my soul, the wish that I could run away and never come back. Run away from my troubles…
Children are trickling home from school, some holding hands, others walking alone, maybe lost in their own little worlds. Their worries are small: unfinished homework, fading crushes. Mine are heavier—bills, work, parenthood. I envy their lightness, though I wouldn’t trade places. Innocence is beautiful, but I’ve learned to live with depth.
The students will take the rough road branching toward their villages as I stay on the railway, letting it lead me wherever it wants. Soon, I reach a small stream. The water glimmers in the fading light, and I can’t help admiring its spirit: free, rebellious, unafraid. It flows wherever it pleases, shaping its own destiny, starting over whenever it must. It purifies itself, never stuck, never still.
Not like this railway: rigid, confined, destined to end somewhere predetermined. It pretends to promise escape, but it only leads to another stop. I don’t want to be like that. I want to be the river: untamed, daring, and willing to make a mess of everything just to prove I’m alive. I want to carve new paths, not follow the ones laid down for me. I want to sweep away whatever stands in my way, not let it glide over me like a train on steel.
But then I wonder, why can’t I follow the river? Why must I stick to the rails? Maybe because the railway guarantees return. It’s predictable, even safe. The river, though beautiful, could carry me to a place I might never find my way back from.
I’m still walking, lost in thought, but lighter now. The air smells of maize and damp soil. Houses hide shyly behind trees. Life here feels simple, almost pure. People seem to breathe more easily, even without electricity, running water, or Wi-Fi. I grew up around this kind of life, yet I wonder if I could still live it now.
I turn back as dusk settles in. The river is quieter than before, almost whispering. It still looks free, but maybe it envies me too—my ability to return home. Perhaps it, too, has its burdens, chained to seasons and at the mercy of human hands.
Next time I’ll stop by and talk to the river. Maybe it has something to tell me.
