Why does life feel so fake sometimes?
When I was younger, I used to go places. Not by myself, of course; a good chunk of my time was spent in my parents' cars. Nevertheless, the memories I most associate with the first 10, 13 years of my life (and beyond, actually) are of shops, restaurants, gas stations. I had no agency, and so I had to do everything my parents wanted. That included going with them to buy gear (mostly skiing or photography), or travelling to far off places.
The thing I'm struggling with lately is that these memories, sometimes, feel more real than my current life. I don't know what it is about them. Maybe the fact that I was always somewhere, interacting with new things. The world seemed bigger, and even travelling one hour away from my house felt like a journey. I was talking to strangers, and seeing unknown things for the first time. There is also a sensory quality to all of this: the smell of a shop, the touch of the fabric of a tablecloth at a restaurant, the humidity inside a small café. I wouldn't be able to place those memories on a map, but the feelings and physical sensations stayed with me to this day. Everything felt so real and tangible and true.
Growing up, I just assumed that my adult life would be similar to the one I was observing in my parents. I'm nowhere near where they were in life, and that ship has sailed long ago. The world has changed drastically, so my life ought to be different from theirs in so many way. But I was not expecting the complete lack of those kinds of side quests. Nowadays, life hardly feels like that. Have I just stopped paying attention? Did I just grow up to become an unadventurous adult? Or did something change?
I've been living in a big city for a few years now, and an hour journey hardly feels like an adventure. It would just take me to the other side of the city. Shops, restaurants and cafés have started feeling like an inconvenience to be managed rather than places where I can just be myself. Because I'm an adult, I think, my brain is constantly processing so much information at any given second: How long will it take me to get me there? Which table do I prefer? How much money should I spend on a meal? Is this the correct route or should I take a shortcut?
Maybe, true freedom like the one from childhood is not being able to make any decision. I wonder how my parents felt like at the time. They were older than I am now, but surely they must have had so many worries and thoughts going on in their brain. Were those journeys an attempt at carving a sliver of relaxation and peace? Were they the cure to whatever I'm also feeling today?