Wanderlust by Najood & Anoud

Posted on March 10, 2013 by


The wooden stairs creaked ever so slightly as she climbed up the attic she hadn’t visited in a while. A faint heartbeat resonated from each trunk, injecting her with an electrifying dose of nostalgia. She took out a wooden box from a small trunk and as she dusted it off, it gave her an unexplainable sense of youth. It was as though someone had turned back Father Time; and she could have sworn she was 23, again. Too many years ago, she had closed the box with a youthful face, caramel-brown hair, and skin that carried young blood.



Now, the tiny, copper hinges were so loose, they barely held the lid on as she opened it to reveal its treasures. No amount of gold could take the place of what she found as she sifted through the letters, miscellaneous jewelry and momentum that were buried within the confined space of the wooden box; a hairpiece, a rusty old ring, a dozen post cards and a brass mirror, bejeweled and absolutely intact. She took the mirror in her delicate hands, looked at her reflection and she could see the days that turned her brown hair into a calm grey, flawless skin into wrinkles, and eyes that had a certain sadness in them into green portals that went through life.



She was content. She put the mirror aside and picked up a small envelope that embraced a folded parchment with tiny, precise letters, which read:


He’s an eclipse, the kind that puts a city that never sleeps to rest.                                                                            

A tidal wave that melts my sandcastle just after I’ve built it…                                                                              

He’s the yesterday I wish never happened and the tomorrow that I dread.


All that’s within the spectrum of my vision is a black silhouette, possessed with exaggerated theatrical movements.


The way he went against everything that I ever believed in made him perfect.


I love him and—



The sentence ended abruptly and left her with a feeling of dangling curiosity, just as a singer leaving the stage in the middle of a song would do. It was her handwriting, and she couldn’t remember what had stopped her from finishing that piece. Isabelle stayed in the attic for quite some time, dwelling on memories she thought were infinite. (N and A)


Sixty days later, a car pulled up on the gravel driveway and the young man took a moment to gaze at the old house his grandmother had left to his name in her will. He stepped out and there was a certain air about the house which made him long to study every detail intact. Before he knew it, he had already made his way through most of the rooms and now found himself running his fingers across the dresser that once belonged to his grandmother. A pale sunlight streamed through the window and he felt her presence. The room was one-shaded but the only thing that stood out was the off-white parchment placed so neatly on the dresser.


Without thinking twice, he opened the folded piece of parchment and he couldn’t help but notice that the handwriting at the bottom of the page seemed new compared to the one above it, which had been aged with time. The fresh ink read: “Never lose the wanderlust within you…the way I did.”


He folded up the paper and put into his back pocket, with the intention of coming back to it later. Not long after, he pulled out of the bare driveway and headed to a nearby coffee shop, to clear his mind. The little café on the corner wasn’t very crowded and as he stood in line to order a latte for the road, he didn’t notice that the paper with the words of his grandmother had fallen out of his back pocket and lay there lonely on the wooden floor. A befuddled girl standing behind him bent down to pick it up, but as she said, “I think this is yours…” he had already walked out the door and left the bell rattling behind him.


    She sighed, grabbed her latte off the counter and held the paper in her free hand. She took a seat by the window and figured she might as well read the private thoughts of a person she never knew.


The funny thing about wisdom is that we come across it in the most unexpected places. The words Katherine was about to read were just the wisdom that she needed…


With a smile, she folded up the already-crumpled paper, left a tip on the table, and slipped out the door with a vibrant aura. A sentence that later became her own mantra was “Never stop wondering, never stop wandering.” And she’d only heard that line in a song. She headed back to her apartment, opened her laptop, and began looking through her blog, which was full with mostly unfinished pieces. She wrote:


Lesson of the day:

You find inspiration and courage in the most neglected pieces of art.

Today, I learned from an old piece of parchment that it’s never too late to seize the moment. I’m getting on a plane tomorrow and I’m not sure where I’m going. I suppose I’ll simply pinpoint wherever my gut tells me to go. My heart is my compass. And to quote my favorite song “Never stop wondering, never stop wandering.”


 Wanderlust is in our blood.


(Parts in regular font are by  Najood
Parts in italics are by Anoud

Parts in bold are by both.)

Posted in: Wanderlust