The Call of the Unknown

M Mehran

There is a moment, somewhere between the first step away from the familiar and the second step into the unknown, when the heart learns how to beat differently. It is not the fast rhythm of fear, nor the steady pulse of routine. It is something else—a rhythm born of possibility, of roads untaken, of skies uncharted. That moment is the essence of wandering.

I first discovered it when I found myself lost, not in a forest or a city, but in life. My days had grown predictable, looped like a song on repeat. Wake, work, sleep. Everything measured, everything planned. Yet inside me was a restlessness I could not silence, a whisper that said: What if there is more?

One morning, I listened. I packed a bag without much thought—just enough to keep me moving—and left my small apartment behind. I had no destination, no carefully mapped route. My only goal was to wander.

The first hours were intoxicating. The city I thought I knew unfolded in unexpected ways when I stopped rushing. Streets I had walked a hundred times suddenly glowed with details: the painted shutters of a bakery I had never noticed, the mural hidden down a narrow alley, the way sunlight gathered like spilled gold on the cobblestones.

By afternoon, I reached the edge of the city where the concrete thinned into fields. The air shifted. It was quieter, scented with grass and earth. I kept walking. And walking.

At some point, the mind begins to loosen when the body moves without aim. Thoughts unravel like old knots, and what felt heavy inside becomes lighter. By evening, I reached a small village I had never seen before. Children played cricket in the street, their laughter chasing the ball farther than their feet could. A woman sitting on her porch waved at me as if I were expected. There was no question of belonging—I was simply another soul passing through.

That night, I slept in a modest inn with peeling wallpaper and sheets that smelled faintly of lavender. I listened to the hum of crickets outside my window and thought: This is it. This is the life I wanted to feel.

Days melted into weeks. I wandered through markets alive with spices and chatter, across bridges arched like the backs of old cats, and into forests that seemed to breathe. I shared bread with strangers who became friends for the length of a meal. I learned that conversations don’t need a common language, only patience and warmth.

Once, while hiking through hills, I came across an old shepherd. His face was weathered like bark, his eyes the color of storm clouds. He offered me tea from a dented kettle, and we sat together in silence, watching sheep graze. Finally, he spoke: “The earth is wide, but the heart is wider when you walk it.” His words struck deep. Perhaps wandering wasn’t about escaping life—it was about expanding it.

But not all days were romantic. Some were exhausting, marked by blisters and hunger, by rain that soaked through my clothes and left me shivering. There were moments I longed for the comfort of my bed, the certainty of hot showers, the predictability of routine. Yet even then, I felt alive. Because every discomfort meant I was moving, not standing still.

One afternoon, in a seaside town, I found myself sitting on a pier, watching fishermen mend their nets. The sea was restless, throwing itself against the rocks with wild insistence. I thought of the life I had left behind—the clock ticking on my desk, the endless emails, the sameness of it all. For the first time, I didn’t feel guilty about leaving. I understood now: to wander is not to run away. It is to run toward something you didn’t know you needed.

Months later, when I finally returned, my apartment felt smaller, though it hadn’t changed. My shoes were worn, my bag frayed, and my heart fuller than it had ever been. Friends asked me, “So, where did you go?”

I never knew how to answer. I could list the places, the villages, the roads—but none of that captured the truth. Where did I go? I went outside myself. I went into the wide open. I went into the unknown, and came back with pieces of it stitched into my soul.

Now, whenever life begins to feel heavy, I remind myself that wandering doesn’t always mean packing a bag. Sometimes it means taking the long way home, letting curiosity lead instead of obligation. It means saying yes to the unexpected, letting detours become destinations.

Because the world is not a map to be checked off; it is a story to be lived. And the best chapters are written not when we plan every word, but when we surrender to the wild rhythm of wonder.

So wander. Not because you are lost, but because the world is waiting for you to find it—one step, one story, one heartbeat at a time.