Blister on My Foot

I walked eleven kilometers last week and got myself a nice blister on my right foot.

My longest walk that I could recall was hardly about five kilometers, those used to take me an hour and fifteen minutes, after which I’d feel completely exhausted. And those walks were mostly with someone, in the evening, filled with talk.

So why did I decide to walk eleven kilometers?

There’s this weird undercurrent of boredom I’ve been carrying around. Mind you, it’s not the kind of boredom that makes you restless and pushes you to do something. It’s not bothersome. You have to pay attention to even notice it. It doesn’t demand action, but it’s there, like a quiet companion sitting in the corner of my consciousness, silently watching as days play out.

I think I can associate a personality to this feeling now. Is it good? I don’t know. But I’m pretty sure I’d prefer it not to be there. Maybe it’s just me, the real me, watching the consciousness of active personalities move with the tides of life. Is existence really that bland?

Looking back at the past few years, I don’t remember much of anything. Ironically, I feel good about not having memories. It lessens the burden of the characters you’re playing.

I’ve always admired the liberal characters in movies, the ones who accumulate experiences but don’t let those experiences define them. On the flip side, we have characters whose memories and experiences become their entire identity. What’s wrong with having no fixed personality? I feel its weight when I move through daily life, like something you’ve got to maintain, sustain.

The day before my walk, my mother casually mentioned that they used to walk eleven kilometers to their grandparents’ home when she was young. She said they’d set out excited, enjoy the first half, then wish someone could magically teleport them through the remaining distance. But when they completed it, everyone felt it was worth it.

In my head, due to the heuristics I use, I started drawing parallels with a monkey who knows there’s water eleven kilometers away, walks to it, struggles through to reach it, and savors quenching its thirst at the end. Too reductionist? Well, now you know how I think about things. I haven’t got the brains to appreciate the nuances of human life and beauty. I don’t understand poetry, maybe someone can teach me and introduce me to it, please?

I wanted to be that monkey. But I have plenty of water at home. There was hardly anything that would make me need to walk eleven kilometers.

Mostly because of this persistent boredom, I wanted something that was at least a bit exciting anyway. So I set out the next day to the nearest town, eleven kilometers away.

The Route

The route I chose is what everybody in my town uses to reach their workplace. I live in an industrial colony where the entire population follows a similar life cycle, work timings, places, rituals are mostly the same. So everyone who passed me was wondering if this was some lost kid. But when they got closer on their motorcycles, they quickly figured me out: someone with headphones, wearing tracks, some show-off kid who decided to walk this unusual route.

About a quarter of the way, I saw a group of monkeys. How fitting, right? But these aren’t friendly, they hassle anyone walking by. So I slowed my pace and kept focused on my music. I didn’t take any photos because I didn’t want to risk it.

The first quarter was exciting. This much walking, I’d always done.

When I reached half the distance, I was feeling exhausted. The sun was starting to rise, and the novelty had worn off.

My father used to warn me about this route. Heavy vehicles pass here, and on the bends, the coal blocks they carry tend to slip. It’s likely they’ll hit you if you’re not careful. I took a picture of a small block that had fallen off.

A few more kilometers in, I was getting bored. I tried to entertain myself by avoiding stepping outside the line marking on the edge of the road, but even that game ended eventually.

The Final Stretch

The last quarter was interesting. Turns out this was an employee-only route, and I didn’t know that. Multiple security personnel stopped me to inquire about this unusual task I’d set out to do. One was nice; another tried to intimidate me (can’t blame him! It would be a nuisance for them if more people decided to walk this route). My shoes didn’t appreciate this muddy section at all.

I got a nice view of the coal mine to the end.

But I finally emerged at the end, took me a good two hours. On my way back, I used public transport.

What Stuck

This was about a week ago. I purposely waited to write about it to see what would stick in memory and whether I’d remember how I felt.

This pattern feels characteristically human and natural: struggle, reach the end, feel good for some time. A sense of accomplishment. The problem is, these challenges need to be manufactured in the modern world, just like how I set out to cover eleven kilometers for no real reason.

I’d love to do more of this, but I just hope it doesn’t end up defining my personality. I want to appear to others just as boring as the next person. Otherwise, you attract the wrong crowd, I think. I used to chase after interesting experiences, but they’re mostly curated these days, not organic enough for my liking.

Here’s the irony: why am I writing about this eleven-kilometer walk if not to sound interesting? I’m literally curating this experience. Well, let’s just say there are degrees to curating your experiences and presenting them to the world. Anything beyond a blog post, which takes some time to write and think through, isn’t something I’d be comfortable with. I couldn’t comfortably do an Instagram or Snapchat post about this in ten lifetimes.

Maybe that monkey knew something I don’t. Maybe the journey itself is the water.