Really, I own nothing other than the time when I’m alone. Most specifically, when I travel solo. The rest of life feels an indentured servitude in comparison. Harsh? Maybe. But when I walked into Iceland’s Blue Lagoon, that milky, blue water told my brain that I had gained my freedom. And in that moment I didn’t feel dissipated.
The tendrils of steam twisted in close, then coiled and twirled away like it was gaining sustenance from the surface of my skin. A private, mystical dance controlled by nothing more than a shift in my body. I’d arrived before 7:00 am and the water in that darkness was wild and free. The shooting star straight over head recalled David Hume’s thought that the life of a human is of no greater importance to the universe than that of an oyster. I didn’t wish upon it. My eyes saw but my mind was deliciously blank. It’s the state of being that sets up my own perambulating doorstep to embark upon my solo adventures with no hindrances of everyday life. No baggage + little luggage = bagless baddie.
