I’ve just realized: life is to survive that tornado called “New Trip” that takes you from home and slams you far.
Mostly, life is to survive the wonder. The one you feel when leaving, and the one of coming back. Because, “back” has nothing left. Home is just some idea we miss. The road is just something to beat. And now I have so many parents around the globe, to don’t remember the ones who had troubled for real.
While I’m watching at the effects of that nth tornado, I realize that we -travelers- have lost the “being son” too early. We became sons of the sunset too soon. Sons of the language we’ve learned, the people who host us. The trucks which gave me a ride. My backpack, trusty mate. The other travelers I met on my way. I’m the son of the sunrise’s colors, and the smoke, and the woods.
And I, and we, will never be real sons again. And it must be fine: there’re so many amazing things about being a traveler, that we should expect the bad side being worst than filling luggages…