A Silent Farewell
As I looked out the airplane window, the night had already swallowed the landscape. There was no trace of the black roads, the red mountains, or the endless blue ocean I had seen on my way in. Just a cold, dark tarmac and a few scattered lights—an unceremonious goodbye to Lanzarote. Perhaps that made it easier, less painful. The island's breathtaking beauty remained hidden in the darkness, sparing me the heartache of departure.
The memories lingered, though. I wondered who would next walk the quiet streets of Arrecife, drive the sand-dusted rental car, or feel the same gusts of wind that had kissed my face and tangled my hair. Out the window, the view blurred into an expanse of black, dotted by faint city lights below. The solitude of this flight felt almost poetic, as if the island itself understood the need for a quiet goodbye—a farewell that demanded nothing, hiding its beauty in shadow so neither of us would have to confront the sadness of parting.
Fragments in Motion
Before drifting to sleep on the plane, my thoughts wandered aimlessly, stretching like threads unraveling in the quiet. Outside, the world was a canvas of deep blue—the sea below mirroring the sky above, with nothing to disrupt the harmony but the occasional streak of white clouds. Music filled my ears as my playlist cycled through familiar melodies, lulling me into a state of semi-consciousness.
There was a girl beside me, lost in her own world. Her movements were subtle: flipping through a book, scrolling through her phone, capturing fleeting moments in photos. I stole a few glances, curious about the snapshots of her life—screenshots of tickets, photos of dogs, streets, corners of buildings. Pieces of her story, fragmented and fleeting, just like mine. As the plane began its descent, I removed my noise-canceling headphones, and suddenly, the hum of the world became deafening. Yet, amidst the chaos, there was clarity—a gratitude for the journey and the unexpected discoveries that came with it.
The Island’s Silent Embrace
Years ago, I had a recurring nightmare: being trapped in high school, with the weight of unfinished exams pressing down on me. It was a suffocating dream, one that left me feeling stuck and powerless, unable to move forward. Perhaps that's why I never cared much for year-end reflections; they often feel like an exercise in assigning meaning where none may exist. Life is a chain of events—cause and effect, some mundane, others profound enough to alter our course.
Lanzarote was one of those unexpected turns. They say the island must accept you, or it will push you away. I approached it timidly, respecting its rugged beauty, its rhythms, and its silence. In those ten days, I didn’t just visit; I listened—to the island, to myself. What I found was more than a vacation. The island's sharp winds, blazing sun, and vast sea sculpted something new within me—a quiet courage, shaped by the raw elements of a place where everything has its own distinct, defined form. Lanzarote taught me that sometimes, when we dare to let go of the familiar, we find pieces of ourselves we didn’t know we were missing.
