Bureaucracy weighs on me like a second skin I can’t peel off, and yet when I arrived in that coastal city today, something broke through. I wasn’t there to enjoy the sea or walk its streets with curiosity, I was there because the institution demanded it, because my name was chosen in some rotation that never feels personal. Still, the moment I stepped outside and looked at the horizon, the work I carried with me felt absurd compared to the simplicity of those colors. Blue water stretched without effort, roofs glowed under the sun, and I stood there half reluctant, half awake, noticing beauty I hadn’t asked for.
Carrying out state duties has a way of draining the senses until everything feels gray, even the hours themselves. Yet the city refused to let me pass untouched. Cobblestone streets tilted upward, churches stood stubborn against the years, and tropical light pressed itself on every wall. I felt the stiffness of office routines clashing with the uneven ground beneath me. My shoes weren’t meant for wandering, but my eyes were betraying the discipline I usually carry. It struck me that even when chained to obligation, the world insists on showing itself in ways that don’t ask for permission.
Drifting closer to the port, I noticed small boats resting quietly, their chipped paint and tired engines almost mirroring my own fatigue. They floated anyway, indifferent to purpose, moved only by water and wind. I thought about how much of my life feels directed by schedules and signatures, how little I let myself drift. The ocean didn’t care about my reports or deadlines, and maybe that’s why it looked so alive to me, almost insolent in its freedom. It’s strange how beauty can irritate and soothe at the same time, making you resent what you’ve lost and admire what you still can touch.
Even as I walked back, knowing I was only a visitor by circumstance, the city had already stamped itself on me. I hadn’t tasted its food or listened to its music or spoken to its people, yet in those short hours I carried away an image that felt permanent. It wasn’t tourism, it wasn’t leisure, it was something quieter and sharper, like being reminded that life insists on color even when you insist on gray. The photographs I took weren’t skillful, they didn’t need to be. Pointing the camera was enough, because everything was already speaking louder than I could.
Leaving, I thought about how rare it is for me to feel this kind of clarity. Work will return tomorrow with its weight, and I’ll sit again under fluorescent lights, writing words that carry no light of their own. Still, there’s a stubborn memory now, of roofs, streets, and an ocean that ignored my indifference. I didn’t go to that city seeking wonder, but it found me anyway. And for a moment, without choosing it, I wore the eyes of a tourist and remembered that even in a life shaped by duty, beauty doesn’t wait for permission to exist.
