Travelling is adventures and enthusiasm, leaving and going and departures, travelling is uncertainty and brutality, it makes you trust strangers and make homes of new places, of new cities, countries, of human-beings you’ve just met, but who attracted you in some weird, undefinable way that made you think that it’s not another continent you are on, but another planet. Travelling is losing sight of everything you find safe and soothing and looking for the certainty of the sunrises and the sunsets, which are scarily similar all over the world, of the moon, that is one and the same and always fits right in your thumb with your one eye closed just like in that movie you watched back home with that boy you are now running away from. Travelling is having nothing but a case full of the most essentials, a photo of your family in the purse, a diary full of things you promised to forget but tend to remember, the air, the Earth, the sea and the summer or the winter, when with your hands freezing in your gloves you are seeking the coziness of a home you haven’t found yet. Travelling is not homesickness, my friend. Homesickness is a state of mind, most of the people endure while they are holding the hand of the one they believe to love, homesickness is delusion of the cowards too scared to leave and too ashamed of their fears. You know what you are sick of when you are on the road? You are sick of being alone and being forgotten, but you are not sick of the lack of a home. You are sick of being apart, of the distance and the remoteness. But this sickness like every other on Earth can be healed by a stranger’s smile, by a cup of coffee and a nice talk that inspire and is so vivid that occupies your whole mind.