What's this wanderer looking for?

Probably her keys... but also the meaning of life.

She was the girl with her head firmly planted in the clouds and her heart sprinting ahead, dragging her along for the ride. Some days, she chased the scent of a memory like a puppy following its nose. Other days, she darted after an idea so ridiculous it just might work. Picture a dandelion seed caught in the wind: light, free, and a little unsure of where it was going. Yep, that was her.

What was she searching for? Oh, everything and nothing, all at once.

“Where is my home?” she often wondered, but not in the “four walls and a cozy couch” kind of way. Her home wasn’t a physical place; it was more like a feeling, a spark, or a moment that made her heart say, “Yep, this is it.” It was the laughter of her siblings during their chaotic game nights, the satisfying hum of a robot finally working (after 57 failed attempts), or the smell of fresh bread wafting through the house and yelling, “Eat me!”

She liked to think her home might be scattered across the world, hiding in unexpected places, a bustling city street, a quiet forest, or maybe even in the aisle of a random bookstore. Wherever it was, she knew she’d recognize it, like spotting an old friend in a crowd.

If her life had a color palette, it would be a glorious mess—bright yellows for her outrageous ideas that sometimes made people squint, calm blues for those nights she stared at the stars and whispered, “What’s out there?” and a bit of shadowy gray for her reflective moments, because hey, even daydreamers need a little depth.

She firmly believed that shadows weren’t the bad guys. They didn’t steal the light; they just made it pop. And when her feet ached from running full speed toward the impossible, she’d grin and think, “What’s a good adventure without a few blisters?”

For her, the best part of searching was the unexpected surprises along the way. Like when someone’s looking for their keys and instead finds a crumpled love note from middle school (embarrassing, but cute). Or when the smell of flowers leads to a secret garden that looks like it belongs in a fairytale. That’s where her heart truly thrived in the little moments of, “Well, I didn’t see that coming!”

She didn’t just walk through life—oh no, she flew! Her wings were patched together with bits of curiosity, stitched up with endless “what ifs.” She soared through ideas and nose-dived into dreams, not because she was searching for a runway but because the wind felt incredible.

Did she crash? Absolutely. Flying was not her strong suit. But she’d dust herself off, laugh at the spectacular disaster she left behind, and flap those wings again. That’s the beauty of being a wanderer—it’s not about nailing the perfect landing. It’s about the freedom to keep trying, keep dreaming, and keep soaring, even if you occasionally face-plant.

So there she was, the forever wanderer, always looking, always dreaming, and always wondering what weird and wonderful thing lay just over the horizon. She didn’t need all the answers (honestly, she might lose them if she had them). The fun was in the not knowing, in the chasing, in the delightful chaos of it all.

And if you’re out there wandering too, maybe your paths will cross one day. She’ll share her stories, the funny, the messy, and the surprisingly profound, and she’ll listen to yours. Until then, she’ll keep bouncing, floating, and flapping her way through life, one curious step at a time.

P.S: Two months, 3 days, 15 hours later, this piece is finally alive!