Each year, thousands of young people embark on the road trip path, becoming homeless for a while: Voyager, a virus of this globetrotting generation. Please remind me of the meaning of our wanderings and itineraries.
It’s interesting how we use a word to describe, or even define, a person, a situation, a context. Here in Quebec, I learned that being homeless means being homeless – Without a Fixed Domicile. It made me feel weird the first few times I heard that word and associated it with him and her.
Itinerant. Itinerary. Destination. Trip. Backpack. Backpacker.
Backpacker. Me. Me. Itinerant. Itinerant. Without a Fixed Home.
Homeless. Me. You. We.
It’s striking. We think we know who we are. We think we know who they are.
Then, all of a sudden, the meaning of the word changes. While you thought “itinerant” meant “traveler”, and that traveler was you, lucky nomad traveling the globe; the definition and the gaze change, “itinerant” means “tramp”, and it is the vision of a world that changes.
I wonder… The meaning that I give to a word, the intention that I place in it, that society gives it, has the power to modify a situation, a context. In the mouth of a Quebecer, from “traveler,” I go to “homeless”. To finally realize that this is what we are, homeless travelers. In my mind, our two images are juxtaposed, superimposed.
Measure for yourself the turbulence that is taking place in you at this very moment when you realize that in this precise sense of itinerant, you are not an adventurer of modern times. Still, this person most often ignored by all, left on the margins of society?
What makes my roaming different from his? His wandering of mine?
The first generation to cross the globe.
They are no longer mere exceptions, marginal dreamers, somewhat stricken adventurers. Nowadays, waves of young people go traveling. They leave the rails, the house, board a train, a plane with their shoulder bag, like vagabonds leaning against their homes. Portable, levitating universes contained in a 60L Decathlon. What are they trying to wander in this way on the roads of the continents, like the homeless of yesterday?
Generation Without Fixed Domicile. The world is a temple of reason, with the Earth as its passion.
I am a wandering traveler. Without a home, I was traveling through destinations, accumulating routes. Receiving precious gifts from strangers, which the present time also offers me. Every day is different and has its contingencies in store for me. Nomad without waiting, sometimes seeking a little security in my explorations on unmarked paths. In search of looks and encounters, human warmth and light, to brighten my face with your visit.
Itinerant in search of meaning, in search of the senses. Of essence and sensations. Live the experience of being alive.
Other cultures are like mirror, poignant confrontation.
We are looking for a definition or a reason to step in the right direction. The one who corresponds to me and who calls me. Calls out to me.
Since everything is going badly and the media are alarmed, I am going on an adventure to look for another version of this ridiculous scenario that the future promises me. Since people are bent on brandishing their weapons while violence and hatred awaken extremes, I consider giving another face to the source of all these sorrows. Since the Earth is extinguished, we are sailing towards this elsewhere. These lands are as yet unexplored, never trodden by our feet. They were born in our brave hearts, very happy and innocent, the hope of bringing back from our expeditions answers to your questions—courage and determination for ages and reasons.
Innovations and intuitions will originate far from the center of the swarm.
Let us form curious bees, battalions of researchers’ heads. Let us collaborate and spread our seeds of happiness, our shoots of sweetness. The honey from the wild horizons we meet in our travels will bring its share of values and colors. Let us leave all our luggage filled with resonance, silence, impertinence.
May the vibrations of these people we meet carry us to other destinations. May the path belong, infinite, and indefinite until we feel in our guts, in our hearts and our souls, that the world of tomorrow is held in the palm of our two hands. We are detached from its straitjacket, delivered from its prisons, consolidated by its roots and linked to the invisible. Hand in hand, the future is ours. Everyone is free to realize their destiny.
Then seized by chills, I taste in my heart the desire and the union.
I am removing the fears that force us to separate. I realize with amazement that people and populations dream of love in unison, from his hand, waiting for the harvest and which I flee to his gaze that follows me. I close my eyes to this homeless person, yet we have the same name—a whirlwind of emotions and violent contradictions. My helplessness disguised as indifference. In my mind, our two images are juxtaposed, superimposed.