One Traveller

One traveller booked the flight because it was cheap.
One traveller booked it because his heart was heavy.

One traveller packed three books and didn’t open a single one.
One traveller read poetry aloud on a bus in Croatia.

One traveller could sleep anywhere, even on cold airport floors.
One traveller needed two pillows and a fan to feel human.

One traveller took photos of food, of streets, of cats on windowsills.
One traveller forgot to take photos at all.

One traveller learned to say thank you in Thai, Turkish, Tamil.
One traveller learned to say sorry in Portuguese, though she never used it.

One traveller missed the train and ended up invited to a wedding.
One traveller found the best meal of his life down a street with no name.

One traveller sat in the shadow of a glacier and thought of his mother.
One traveller watched the sun set over the Danube and wept without knowing why.

One traveller argued over a map, then gave up, then got lost, then got found.
One traveller gave directions to a stranger in a city he didn’t belong to.

One traveller stayed in one place too long.
One traveller never stayed long enough.

One traveller came home with stories about volcanoes and visa stamps.
Another came home with silence and softer eyes.

One traveller asked, how can people live like this?
Another traveller asked, how have I lived so long without seeing this?

One traveller bought gifts for everyone but himself.
One traveller carried home a handful of sand in his shoe.

One traveller thought the point was to escape.
Another knew the point was to return—changed.

One traveller wanted another place, another language, another morning.
Another wanted this place, this language, this morning—again.

And one traveller, at last,
stopped needing the world to impress him
and let it teach him instead.