THE VAST FREE LAND OF WANDERINGS OPPORTUNITYS
Here is a longer version, told in that same personal, spoken-to-you style, with three interesting friends woven into the moment—so it truly feels like someone is standing right in front of you, recounting the scene as it happened:
If you were here with me right now, I’d show you the land exactly the way we saw it that morning. It stretched out endlessly, a warm, sun-washed expanse of soil where the fields looked like huge, sleeping blankets laid out all the way to the horizon. The farms were so flat, so wide, that if you squinted just a little, you’d swear the earth and the sky were trying to touch.
And right through the middle of all that open space ran our favorite sandy path—long, winding, and stubbornly refusing to go straight. It curved like it had a personality of its own, like it wanted to show us one secret at a time. On both sides of the path stood a few scattered trees, their leaves trembling lightly in the wind as if whispering something only the land understood. Beneath them, the ground was sprinkled with dried leaves and fallen twigs, crunching softly under our bare feet.
I wasn’t alone that day. I had my three closest companions with me—Ayan, Mira, and little Rafi. You would’ve liked them.
Ayan was the tall, calm one, the kind of person who moved as if every step he took had purpose—even when we were just wandering. If you listened closely, you’d hear him humming under his breath, always some tune he claimed he didn’t remember learning. Mira was the opposite—always laughing at nothing, always pointing at things no one else noticed. She had this habit of talking to trees as if they were old friends, and honestly, the trees seemed to almost sway back to her in greeting. And Rafi… well, Rafi was the dreamer. He carried a little notebook everywhere, writing down thoughts like he might forget the world if he didn’t trap pieces of it on paper.
We were walking along that sandy path, barefoot, the warmth of the soil soaking into our steps. I remember telling them—much like I’m telling you now—“Look up.” And when they did, they all fell quiet. The sky was enormous, a vast embrace of blue with no end, so open it almost made you feel small and incredibly free at the same time. Birds were slicing across it—free, swift, fearless—gliding over the land as if the whole world belonged to them.
Mira pointed at a pair of birds flying in perfect harmony and whispered, “They know where they’re going.”
Rafi shook his head, smiling. “No… they just trust the sky.”
Ayan, with that thoughtful half-smile of his, said, “Maybe we could learn from them.”
We walked on, the path crunching under us, the air warm but gentle. Sometimes Ayan would wander a few steps off the trail to inspect a strange rock or a patch of wildflowers. Mira kept weaving little crown rings out of dry twigs, setting them on our heads like we were royalty of this untouched land. And every few minutes, Rafi would kneel to scribble something down—some phrase, some feeling, some fleeting moment he didn’t want to lose.
“Why do you write so much?” I asked him once.
He just looked up with that quiet intensity and said, “Because places like this… they disappear if you don’t remember them right.”
And maybe he was right. Maybe that’s why I’m telling you this now—so the memory doesn’t slip away.
The land was wide enough for all our dreams, unrestricted and wild, ready for wandering souls. The breeze carried the scent of warm earth, and every direction felt like an invitation. We didn’t need maps. We didn’t need plans. We just walked—barefoot, curious, open to whatever the day offered us.
Sometimes Mira would run ahead and shout back, “The land’s telling us to hurry!”
Other times Ayan would slow us down, saying, “Look. You might miss something beautiful.”
And Rafi would stand still in the middle of the path, eyes half closed, as if listening to some secret the wind whispered only to him.
If you were here, right now, I’d tell you to step onto that sandy trail with us. Feel how the ground welcomes your feet. See how the sky stretches like an endless promise. Hear the birds writing their own stories above your head.
And then you’d understand why we loved that place—why that wide, free land felt like a world where anything new, anything wonderful, could begin with just one more barefoot step.