Nomadic Life

Dear Diary,

up until now, I have been telling the stories from the trains that run across the Wild Fields, but the truth is, those trains now run across the globe. It’s time for me to start telling you this story, too, as otherwise, it will not be a full picture. 

We - the travellers of these trains - carry our heroes on our phones. We pack their tiny books in our suitcases when we cross the ocean. As if, we try to save the part that makes us who we are while the beast is tearing down our physical bodies - we do our best to salvage our souls. It is a practice that hasn’t been discussed, but it’s an instinct that kicks in when things get bad. I read about it in a book - that’s how our ancestors did it before too - they met in each other’s places in foreign countries, they shared the tiny copies of books they could smuggle, and they hoped they would be able to make these books part of the bookshelves, so our voices would be part of the global discussion and our physical bodies will remain recorded through words, images, and sound, as a proof that we were, actually, here - we exist. 

That’s why this phone calls in the middle of any time of the day - hey, can I stay at your place? - are somehow familiar, as if this is part of our code. It feels that we have a place to lay our head all over the world, while the place we want to lay our head might be still out of reach. So we still pack our suitcases and meet in foreign countries across the globe.

Nomadic life is beautiful,
but only when it’s by choice.

21.03.2024 / XBerg, Berlin