First
I lived many lives. All true, all mine. Each one had its own identity dictated by the country or state I've lived in, school I went to, job I had, people that surrounded me. I saw myself slipping in and out of them, a still silhouette, while flashy background images moved behind me at a faster and faster pace, always fighting not to loose that primordial sense of self, of how it felt the first time I discovered the world. What remains when everything is stripped down? The bite into a tomato just ripped from my grandmother's garden, in a dusty village close to the Danube, the perfume of linden flowers covering the streets after a spring rain in the neighborhood I grew up in Bucharest , the wind blowing my hair all over my face, on a hiking trip in my beloved Carpathians and a gentle hand moving it away. Random bits. Just to relive the wonder. It is not death that I fear, but numbness that comes when you stop feeling at all. Travel has been one of my ways to fight numb
