World-Thirsty
Why I live as a nomad and choose freedom over comfort.
I have no roots,
only wild wings
and a thirst
I can’t seem to quench.
Being a nomad
is living in a state of question.
It’s dancing with discomfort
like you’re dancing with your own reflection —
you feel you're going crazy,
not knowing where it leads,
but allowing yourself to feel
as you go.
And to feel it all.
It’s traveling with uncertainty
packed in your carry-on.
And realising:
you can live with less
but feel so much more.
Going on dates
with all your doubts folded in your pocket.
Living with goodbyes
as part of the routine.
Saying goodbye to routine
with a kiss on the forehead.
Constantly
finding yourself
and losing yourself
again.
It’s condensing your whole life
into a few kilos
and a few bags.
Learning that you can live with less —
not as a punishment,
but as an opening
to what truly matters.
It is like cutting all the chains
that keep you caged
in one space.
It’s arriving somewhere new
already dreaming of what’s next.
Always asking:
Where am I going?
What do I want to feel?
What life do I want to live now?
Who do I want to become
this time?
What am I willing to lose?
And what is worth staying for?
And because you never settle,
you never sleepwalk.
You are never on autopilot.
Every step requires intention.
Every place asks for a decision.
Every goodbye reminds you of what matters.
Every start is sacred —
because you chose it.
And I don't want a life
that just happens to me.
I want to choose it
—wildly—
every damn day.
Living as a nomad
is looking at stability
with a smirk.
Rolling your eyes at the average.
Getting bored with the predictable.
You want more.
You crave more.
You burn,
with desire,
lust for life,
and maybe a burnout.
Fire in the soul.
Passion in the chest.
And yes —
fire in the ass.
It’s owning being too much —
too wild,
too intense,
too real.
Being nomadic within.
Autonomous.
Unsettled.
Liquid.
Fluid.
Always in motion,
inside and out.
And yes, sometimes
you lose your mind in the process.
But maybe this madness
is the medicine.
Not the illness.
Maybe this is us
becoming
exactly who we came here
to be.
We didn’t come here to be normal.
We came for the extraordinary.
For the chaos.
For the wide eyes.
For the plot twist.
For making life
a damn masterpiece.
And if they don’t understand —
they don’t need to.
But we,
the ones with audacity,
we know that being alive
means craving more,
craving deeply,
craving wildly.
Feeling everything.
Feeling so much
we spill over.
All over the place.
All over the world.
And when they ask
if it’s exhausting to live this way,
we answer:
Yes, it is.
But what a fucking privilege
to be tired
from intensity of life —
not from the lack of it.
I’ve built homes in seven countries,
and I’ll do it again in a few, or many, more.
I’ve lived dozens of different lives,
collected strangers
that felt like soulmates.
Loved in languages
I don’t speak fluently.
I’ve started from scratch over and over.
Rebuilt kitchens and offices,
hopes and hearts,
routines and circles —
and proved to myself
I can always start again.
Built homes
with candles, books,
and polaroid walls.
And left them behind
when the winds changed,
romances ended
or I felt bored.
Or I just decided to.
And now
I am not afraid to lose it all
because I know I’ll find myself again.
I used to be terrified
of being alone.
Now I know
I’m never truly alone
unless I choose to be.
I used to think I needed plans.
Now I know curiosity is a compass.
Sometimes it was just a photo on Pinterest,
a melody called Vienna,
the sound of a place’s name,
a movie that made me want to live something,
a silly crush,
a platonic love,
empty promises,
or the ache of a goodbye
that pulled me to a new place.
I followed sparks instead of certainty —
and that was enough.
It has always been enough.
I followed cities
like some follow lovers.
I chased moments
like some chase careers.
I trusted my curiosity
more than any map.
And yes, sometimes,
I arrive in a new city
already thinking of the next.
That’s the tax
of being world-thirsty.
Some days,
I look at my life
and wonder:
How the hell do I live like this?
Other days,
I think:
Goddamn, this is living.
How could I not live like this?
And I forget how hard it is.
Until I remember again.
It’s a dance.
Of despair and delight.
Of losing it all
and choosing to keep going.
And I love that.
This madness.
This poetic,
chaotic
freedom.
I found a strength in me
I didn’t know existed.
I found that
many lives
can fit into one.
I found that
my fire
doesn't need one fireplace.
I found that
even if I’m often
spinning with uncertainty,
I’m still dancing.
And I’ll keep dancing.
One moment,
I swear I’m losing my mind.
The next —
I’m sure of it.
And I love it.
And maybe that’s what it means
to be free.
