Since moving to New Zealand, I had been missing the kind of spontaneous travels my Singaporean life afforded. Yes, in those days I had (more than once) called in sick at work, only to end up in Ipoh doing a spontaneous search for chicken hor fun. I’d booked a ticket to Bali for myself simply because I felt like going somewhere, and that anticipation for adventure was like a drug, addictive, elusive.
Maybe this is just my trivial yearning for the cheap thrills of going overseas for under a hundred bucks, but more than that, it’s an extension of my perpetual restlessness.
I’m not a creature of habit, but that’s probably putting it lightly. I can’t do weekly rituals, daily habits, monthly haircuts, whatever. I’m one to stay away from cafes, even those I like, when the baristas start to recognise my face. The idea of having a “go-to” takes away the raw excitement of new encounters and replaces it with habitual familiarity. 
But this was something life in New Zealand demanded. People are self-sufficient here, relying not on external stimulators, instead relishing the comfort of ritual familiarity with their surroundings. It was the land of tight-knit communities, where people knew each other all their lives. Had my days of adventuring had come to a premature end?
Yesterday, I was out of the city for the first time in weeks. After driving down a winding gravel road, jumping over fences, and half-tumbling down a slope leading nowhere, open blue waters unveiled itself. It invoked the most freedom I had felt in a long time. Along with it came a revelation – I’m free to live by my own rules. Perhaps my days as a vagabond were over, but my life is still what I want it to be, no matter what society implies. After all, adventure exists purely in the eye of the beholder.
The infinite wisdom of life has a way of giving us what we want, if we just open our eyes to it.
Musings of a Leaf 