We have always been on the move, nomadic souls.
Maybe it is because our houses dry up in the sun and melt with the first rains, or maybe it is because we are always looking for a more fertile soil, a closer source of water.
We often carry with us all the life we have behind us, stuffed into a sack or wrapped in a cloth.
There is not much, sometimes just a pot, a ladle, a pair of shoes and a good dress for church.
And almost always a crumpled photograph that we will never lose.
Maybe it's because we started to hear the sound of movement, the rhythm of walking when we were in our mother's belly.
Hours and hours under the sun, carrying unthinkable loads in our heads and one more thought in our bellies.
For us, travelling is more or less like breathing, we move like fish in the sea, floating in the midst of a known fauna, hoping that these sheet-metal whales will also protect us little sardines.
We move listening to the muffled noise of the world, sensing dangers and opportunities in the air, refreshing ourselves with useful encounters, flying smiles, the understanding of glances, the kindness of wayfarers.
The more you travel, the less foreign you feel.
We move, we migrate, we return.
This is what we know and what we must do.
Because one should travel whenever one can.
Escape, at most, once in a lifetime.