My life could be summed up with this simple word, and I would not feel the need to add anything else.
I was born and raised in the same country with no economic worries, with a family (generally) willing to listen to me. I have passions, hobbies I like to indulge in, though sometimes not really. Yet, I remain a stranger.
I am a stranger to my loved ones, who cannot really understand me; I am a stranger to my friends, who remember me only from time to time, without reciprocating the gifts of the heart I have given them; I am a stranger in my city, because I do not recognize myself in its inhabitants; I am a stranger in my body, because it cannot express all that I am; I am a stranger in my time, because I see things I do not like, but do not know how to solve; I am a stranger in my gestures, which I sometimes hate so much that I do not consider them my own; I am a stranger among my merits, which I cannot and don't want to acknowledge; I am a stranger in my tastes, which run contrary to the world; I am a stranger to the sun that shines without caring for me, who gave in the hope of receiving in a world where it is so, too hard to find good people.
When I enter a room, I already know that I will leave. I know it is so, because I am a stranger who cannot stop anywhere.
Maybe it is the world that shows me alternatives that are not right for me? Maybe it is me who is not right for the world?
If only I hadn't been abandoned all those times, I wouldn't be a stranger now.
If someone stopped me on the street and asked, "Where is your home, your real one?", I would answer, "Maybe it exists somewhere. For now, I don't know. I can only look for it."
In my case, it is the journey that matters because it is the only thing I have ever had. And it is a solo one.