Being a stranger, that’s what I prefer. I just can’t breathe in my own country. It is as beautiful as tiny, a closet in the Earth castle. My parents barely passed through boundaries, it’s not my legacy, and air is not exclusively hanging in my place, but elsewhere as well.
I need to take Prague in my arms, to smell Marrakech, to be introduced to New York, to fuck London, and to caress Ulan Bator. I also want to speak their people’s words, to touch their money, to hear their music, to eat their food, except for Mongolia if there are balls of Yak for diner.
Being a stranger, let behaviours getting led by something higher, change angles and points of view, feeling humility, getting warm, getting cold, just be myself with no consideration of who can hear and judge me while speaking on a bus, in a restaurant, in the streets.
You are just what you are. You are just what you should always be: lost and with no control, no power. Naked.
You, shy guy, acquaintance of mine, you told me that you were always (more) open when you were a foreigner. I’m so glad, because I feel the same; what’s better than being foreigner for someone, except when it’s in an Albert Camus way.
Stranger faces, languages, habits, food, a necessity to survive, to be connected to others, to be part of the chain. Speaking french, in France with french peoples is the height of boring to death. Being a foreigner, it’s the perfect opposite: my brain is always in stimulation, so are my ears, there’s nothing obvious, it’s a permanent effort to understand and to be understood. Most of all, I need to share, to look eyes, to speak sort of body language, in particular with hands.
The shape of the earth is perfect: no beginning, no end. I don’t like ends. I like introductions, beginnings, debuts. Travelling, enjoying a stay is part of that: always something to start, someone to know. To take the exact shape of infinite different cultures, as perfect as Earth’s.
I am often homesick in my own home, because home is not just where i’m used to live.