To have a soul that belongs to the sea is to be a fish on the land.

It is being looked at as a person without any real plans. It is not caring about where you live, because houses are no more, then walls and doors for you. Home is something else.

It’s the nine hours at the airport, it’s five to twelve hours above the clouds, it’s falling asleep over turbulence.

It is the orange light, it is the Sicilian limoncello, and the fat moon over Genova.

It’s the thought of death in its sweetest form.

It is living with a suitcase on the floor.

To have a soul that belongs to the sea means having your teenage years at hand at all times, in case you forget who you are.

Diaries filled with images of crystal chandeliers, white bed sheets, windows that are looking at the Sun, memories of fountains, cocktails, hot days, steaming cacti, frogs and pink birds and turtles and dogs.

When you have a soul that belongs to the sea, you have no choice, but to like people.

You learn to laugh at the jokes of strangers and listen to life stories on train rides (even asking questions, to make the conversation last longer).

You learn to share water, sunscreen, shower gel, condoms, towels, cigarettes, wine and money — without expecting anything in return.

You create strange voice recordings that are mostly the same: someone plays the guitar, something always splashes, and there is always a kid laughing in the background. You’re attached to nothing, but these records.

To belong to the sea is to crave the scent of salt and to have crippling loneliness in your whole body, except when you are in the water, or on the road.

You breathe with the waves, and die with the low tide.

The ocean is homecoming.

When you see water for the first time,

while driving or clinging to the window of a train,

you almost shiver.

Your cells still remember that you belong here.

The feeling becomes certainty,

when we cross the portal and enter the hall.

When around us there are palm trees,

hydrangea bushes, purple flowers.

There is wind music, sun warmth, cloud-cinema,

the sounds of white-winged birds,

and the smell, the smell of home.

As soon as we feel it,

it is our nature to drop our bags,

kick off our shoes and run to her

as if we were running to our mother.

The sand burns our feet, but somehow it feels good.

When the water finally touches you, it's just as cathartic

as when you hug someone you've missed for a long time.

The ocean and us: we are of the same material.

When someone lifts us close to the ear,

they can hear the waves in us.

We play the same game:

withdraw and flow to a special rhythm,

our breath puts wind in the sails.

We keep on floating.

We can lie down on her palm.

We won’t run out between her fingers.

I have been living in free fall for 109 days now.

I am at home and abroad at the same time in three countries, on the banks of the Danube, the Thames and the beach of the Mediterranean Sea, on beautiful and strange streets. I usually walk so that I don't have to spend money on the bus, or I sit somewhere, in a park or in some public space, and try to concentrate, which most of the time doesn't work out.

I could be happy that I have freedom, but instead I flounder like a fish, or like a tired little bird that has forgotten how to fly back to its cage.

No legs, no wings. I'm a torso.

In my glass, there is white wine or tinto de verano, or Guinness on tap,

it depends on the language I order.

By the way, experience shows that one cafe and one bar per city is enough where you can drink for free. And in each country, one or two friends or one family is enough to come home to, and it doesn't matter whether they got a king size bed or an inflatable mattress. And one travel companion is enough, whether it's moonlight or a pair of greenish-brown eyes.

One dream would be enough to stop the fall, to set the focus, to create home for me, in myself.

I don't need a permanent address, I only need legs and wings.

I need God to exist

so someone would take notes.

So there would be a camera on

when I’m dancing on the way to the station

or when I drink red wine in the bath,

light a vanilla candle

and wash my hair like a big city mermaid

I need God to see me when I look like a movie

and think that I’m even more beautiful

without makeup on.

I want him to watch me swim in the sea

and be desperately into me

To think about all the things he will do to me

once we get to his place.

I want to feel the Sun’s gaze on my skin,

watch the blinking night sky and know

that God is fantasising about me

I need him to tell my life like a story:

to choose the perfect narrative

so the audience would get the message

even if I don’t.