It had been hours since the rest of my family had retired to bed, and I was sitting contently on a hotel chair, poised in front of a large window as if I were waiting for some monumental spectacle or life-changing event to grace my presence. With my elbows resting on a windowsill carefully cradling my head, and my knees folded under me resting on a stiff-backed wooden chair, I stared out onto the cityscape of San Francisco. My wide eyes fixated on each building, car, and person, longing to find the same spark of wonder in each of them as I had myself. It was as if every weight holding me down to reality had magically been shed at one AM on a cold December night, leaving in its place a land above the clouds, filled with fantasy and longing. 

Lights emerging from each skyscraper and car window were twinkling stars, every person I could see through my rose-colored windowpane became some great adventurer, traversing through the city on a marvelous quest for a great and long-lost treasure. I made up my mind that very night that I too, would become an adventurer amongst the stars, looking for my treasure. I would seek out fresh horizons, more culture, new friends, and a re-imagined me.

This wasn’t the first time I had been emersed into wanderlust. Ever since I could remember, my fantasies had been filled with streets seeping with unknown culture and languages, faces I had never seen, dreams I had yet to imagine, and anything besides the same people, shops, and houses I had known. In the magic of my late-night moment, I fixated on one solution: If I just moved somewhere else, I could be happy for the rest of my days. Finally free from the boredom and smallness of my present life. 

Although this fairytale-filled fantasy appeared to be all-consuming, a small voice in the deep crevices of my heart knew the truth. I would never be truly happy anywhere if I continued to let wanderlust consume me. I had felt this way before when my family moved from a town near Portland to Southern Oregon, where I now reside. I yearned for new things, uncharted territory to explore. I had been emersed in the same hazy wanderlust for the town I now disliked. This forced me to think past my stars and fairy dust, and into the reality of my situation. If I did pursue a fulfilled fantasy and moved to San Francisco, would I not just grow bored? Would I eventually long for the streets of a smaller town, see being a regular at a quaint diner and knowing the same neighbors for the rest of my days with joy to match what I felt that night in San Francisco?

A greater fear than filled me. What if I could never find true happiness in where I was living? Would I never be happy in one place for fear that there is always going to be something greater? What if years of satisfaction before wanderlust invaded my every thought turned into just months?  With this idea now set firmly in my head, wanderlust seemed less like a joyous dream filled with hope and wonder, and more like a curse. Fairy dust and sparkles shrouding my judgment, replacing delight in my surroundings with bitterness towards all the memories I had made.

A grey cloud raining fear was now warring with my wanderlust, and I could think of no solution to my problems. If I decided to ignore my wanderlust, wouldn’t I be denying myself the opportunity to learn new things and grow? On the other hand, if I spent the rest of my life jumping from one place to the next, I would never be able to keep very long term friends or favorite places. It seemed as though there is no way out. So, as I sat once again by a window, this time in my room, fixating not on city lights, but trees and gravel driveways, and dreaming of what the future might hold, I was forced to confront my wanderlust, and ask myself the question of whether or not adventure or lasting stability mattered more to me. Right now, it seems as though the only thing I can do is enjoy the people and surroundings I have, and focus not on the evils of my wanderlust, but revel in the magic it brings to my imagination.