The World is a Canvas | Paris 19ème 

by Charlotte E. Wilde

 The idea of home is untenable for those with the itchy soles of a wanderer. Many people like to travel but there are some who suffer the malaise of the errant, that feeling of some building, billowing pain that tentacles its way further into their lives the longer they remain in one place. The only cure is escape; the only home is the one they can look to from across and ocean, a continent, down a long highway, to see it shimmer with the mirage of a perfection, lost to anyone who stands too close. “Home” becomes, for such vagrants, a construct of distance– the proverbial “heart” that most associate with such things is, and can only be, wherever they are not. An illness, perhaps, this wanderlust, of the most acute and driving sort.

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