I think more and more that we are a society of expatriates. We leave, or they make us leave, our countries, or even our cities, because they are not big enough to live “alone”. But what is truly “ours” if it implies the absence of ours? Does it lose its meaning when we can’t enjoy it with those we love? I live in contradiction, four hours from everything that matters to me, with the luck that a train connects us in just an hour and a quarter. While I throw money on trains every time nostalgia gets the better of me. I debate whether to include the address of where I live, or where I’m from, every time they ask me. We want to live off what we do, yes, but sometimes I wonder: at what point does this not actually become surviving? I do not know. There are days, honestly, that I don’t know.
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