coming home

'There's no easy way to tell you so here it is, we got word this morning that Mr. X took his own life. We just thought you should know the truth'

This was the content of the emergency meeting at work yesterday. Breath in. Breath out. Push in my chair. Go back to my desk. Turn off the computer. Go home.

Go.... where?

For a systematic nomad, the 4-letter 'h' word lacks definition. I live here, I live there, sometimes I pay rent, sometimes I sleep on couches, sometimes I catch a quick nap in my car. Last year I slept in airports in 3 different countries. Having a job most of the time allows me to have an address, but a 'home'? I'm not sure I've had that for quite some time.

After yesterday's meeting I searched my mind & soul. For the first time in a long time, I longed to have someONE to go home to. Isn't home where your heart is, where you feel loved, where you can go when you have something on your mind?

Rethinking the nomadic lifestyle.

Escapism is my reality

Out. Away. It's all I've ever wanted to do. Get out, go away, start a new life, speak a new language, make some new friends, get a new stamp in my passport. I don't know who I am anymore. I don't even speak my native language in my sleep. I scream in French. In the middle of the night. In the middle of a dream. I can't even express myself in my native tongue! Ich kann nicht... well, anything. One rolling sidewalk with me standing on it and reality somewhere static on the side as I fly by...