I help my mum out in writing sometimes. Not because I can do better than her – she has to spend at least a half hour editing each and every one of my feeble sentences – but because a.) I want to write something outside my emotional outbursts; b.) I feel like helping her and; c.) I really want to use the desktop. I’m attached to it, okay? The laptop gives me a stiff neck and my phone drops onto my face too much. This one is decent and polite with me.
Most of her writing is connected with freelancing, and she now just started contributing to an international travel blog. When I deduced that her butt must be sore from sitting that long in front of the computer, I offered to do research and write the next couple of posts down (and sneakily opened my email). At first, doing her article was okay. Until two hours into it I felt like sobbing and kicking our front door open, for me to rush out and run across the world.
It was one of her contributions to the travel blog, which was – uh, duh – about travel destinations (twenty kid-friendly ones, to be specific…), and while she had inserted a line or two (or three, or four… Or a whole paragraph) about her personal experience, I had none. My paragraphs were stiff. Experience means first-hand knowledge. I was staring at my preferred adjectives like picturesque and magnificent, with phrases like thrilling experience and unforgettably beautiful, and then look back at Google images.
It’s not particularly concerning. I’m fifteen; there’s still plenty of time to wander about when I’ve reached a higher education, achieved a Nobel Prize, committed a crime, etc. Besides, I get dragged to some of the places she goes.
But the thing is, I don’t want to get dragged. I don’t want to wait until *insert life achievement here*. Scratch that, I don’t want to wait at all. And it’s nothing to do with wanting to grow up to be able to – I fear adulthood. Speaking of fears, however, this one gives way to my reasons: I fear change in nature. Though change embodies both sides of the coin, with nature, it only seems to get darker. Well, for us.
It’s just that human beings have got such a short visit on this planet, and the way things are going, I wouldn’t be able to visit the places as they are now. My mum used to tell me tales of undiscovered islands she wanted to take me to soon, but in a span of two years it is now full of tourists and establishments. She used to tell me the story of a place that went isolated during colonization; a town that looked like a secluded paradise, but now its citizens are never given a quiet moment with the amount of people arriving. How many more are out there?
Not that I don’t want these places to be discovered and enjoyed, but when they are, they’re usually exploited. They become crowded and littered. They lose the sheltered, otherworldly atmosphere; the peace that gives way to reflection and union of and with nature. I want to go right now, before everything transitions into something unrecognizable. I want to be able to tell my own stories about my own adventures. If I had the opportunities to go and preserve nature, I would – for the sake of sustenance and bedtime stories.