Move forward

I'm reading "C’était ça ou mourir," a reality diametrically opposed to my own, yet with one common thread. Going on a trip means going somewhere and then returning, whereas traveling around the world means moving forward without looking back, like a refugee who leaves their country with no future for another where the future shines with promises—promises yet to be fulfilled, certainly, but promises nonetheless, while those promises have dried up back home. Which is obviously not my case.

But like them, I move forward, in fact, I move forward, then settle down and set off again. I spend a few days in a place unknown at first, which gradually becomes my home, my cocoon where I settle in and develop routines. When I leave, there's this small grief of leaving, of tearing myself away, of uprooting myself, with a subtle sadness in the background. A grief. Then, little by little, the light returns, bursting forth from this world that unfolds, from life that pulses, always the same, always different, with the pleasure of absorbing the particular vibe of what surrounds me and enriching my knowledge of the world, of our earth, a small blue dot 🔵 in the dark universe teeming with pulsating beings. Regularly, a connection is made, an exchange of glances, a smile, a "hello" in the local language, a conversation sometimes brief, sometimes long. But in any case, it warms my heart and gives me a pat on the back to keep moving forward.

Leif Erickson, the first European to set foot in America