But I've been here before. I've sat down at this very spot and stared at the same drawing, framed and leaning against the red walls of my room. (And it still is, now.) I've been here and I've thought to myself, how can a place change so much and yet remain the same? In the little sketched windows of the apartments, are the people inside feeling sad for what their homes has become? Will they ever know that this and everything they see now will never be the same again?

Places and things hold so much more memories than people and sometimes this terrifies me.

We build our own walls to feel protected but these walls have turned against us.

I have built my own walls. And I didn't even realized.

Now at this very spot, I am thinking I need to get out of this place. This place that I have yet to explore, its people I have yet to make friends with. This place with its streets, the food, the water splashing out from the fountains, the cars and their one-way roads, the enormous luscious trees on both sides, the cool May breeze, the screaming masonry walls, the warm inviting sun, the clear blue sky, the clouds... Oh, the clouds. There is no place like home, but the clouds furthest away from where you belong will always be the most beautiful.

And for this I will always be on the road.