How much does a man live, after all?
Does he live for a thousand days, or one only?
For a week, or for several centuries?
How long does a man spend dying?
What does it mean to say “for ever?”
--Pablo Neruda
Perhaps I travel as much as I do because I feel that when I am displaced…is the only time I am truly living. Yet, after so much time in different places, where does one place the point of reference from which one is displaced?
Where is home for me now?
Traveling to new places, wandering around cities where nobody knows me…the anonymity makes me feel alive. But I am also struck with a longing for a constant place, one that disappeared somehow between leaving my parent’s house, perhaps stuffed in some cardboard box during a move from apartment to apartment—a place that perhaps exists now only in my heart—a place to call home.
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