As I sat on the edge of the lagoon away from the tour buses and hordes of people that had just arrived, with the vast Atacama Desert before me, the base of the snow-covered Andes Mountain range a sandy road away, the dominant Licancabur Volcano casting its massive shadow, and Bolivia just on the other side, the question came to me: Can I ever return to an office job after this? I don’t think I can was my answer. And it’s not a matter of not wanting to, but simply not being able to. My brain won’t let me. It worked for me before, but now I would likely go utterly mad in such confinement.
I’ve worked in an office all my life, living in that box someone thought it would be best to call it anything but a box. How about a cubicle? That has a nicer ring, doesn’t it? A box connotes restriction – quashed creativity. A cubicle is limitless. For me it was fine. We do what we have to do to survive. Sometimes what society dictates. But that was then…this is…now here I am soaking my restless feet in the salt water Cejar Lagoon, locked in on the beauty of the Andes, in an impressive desert, and if I tune out those pesky tourists long enough, the only sound I hear is that voice in my head that tells me do this for the rest of my life. To heck with deadlines and office politics and bullshit from people whose entire world is a commute between home and the office. Make this your office, the voice tells me. And…I’m listening.