I've Been Wandering, Yet Never Seen the Ocean

I have always been wandering, yet I have never seen the ocean. My footsteps have crossed countless unfamiliar streets, my backpack filled with weariness and anticipation, but I have never reached the sea within my heart.

“The ocean,” like a soft dream, Distant and vague, yet carrying a silent call; Vast and profound, like an unfinished poem, It is like an endless horizon.

And I can only drift in the wind, following muddy paths, chasing the direction of the wind, hoping to reach that unknown shore.

In my youth, as soon as the school bell rang, my feet would automatically carry me home. Pushing open the wooden door, there was a small world that belonged only to me—a half-written exercise book spread on the desk; inseparable companions waiting to finish an unfinished game; the scent of food wafting from the kitchen, my mother’s smile glowing warmly under the lamplight. Outside lay meadows and flower beds, the wind darting playfully along the ridges, sunlight spilling generously through the leaves. Back then, I longed to grow up, to go farther, to have a sky without constraints.

But now, having grown up, there is a vast emptiness in my heart. I once believed that leaving where I was would free me from the cage, allowing me to spread my wings and soar. It was only later that I realized how, from the moment we are born, despite carrying a vision of freedom, we are constantly bound by invisible ropes—duty, rules, desires, like layers of vines tightening around us. We think we are the helmsmen of life, yet we are often pushed along by life.

That place called “home” may only belong to the memories of childhood. It is the scent of the hearth, the fragrance in the evening breeze, the reassurance that someone is waiting for you to return. No matter how spacious or exquisite my current dwelling may be, it is merely a waystation on the journey—it can shelter me from wind and rain, but not from the wandering of my heart.

I am still on the road, still yearning for that ocean, yet I have gradually come to understand that the true place of belonging may have long been hidden within the landscapes of childhood, hidden in the moments of time that have flowed by, quietly, gently.