There is a price you pay for being a vagabond- for being the one who goes when everyone stays; for seeing landscapes and hillsides and winding cobbled streets that others won't; for experiencing adventure and discovery and charting the uncharted and all of the dragons and princesses and sea monsters that you conquer and writing with every step the stories that our children's children will tell their children when they are tucking them into bed. For being entrusted with the mystery of the unknown there is the cost of being a mystery, of being unknown to who you come back to. There is the cost of being alone in your revelations. There is the vacancy of proof of what you've returned with, except for your heavy sighs and your furrowed brow. There is the cost of not having ground in which to stick your roots, wide spreading and diverse as they are, therefore not allowing space and time for revelations to grow. They stay in far off distant countries, past a train, past a state line, past language barriers and conversations on benches and in tall stone buildings.
So you stand there with your dusty suitcase and your worn out traveling shoes and a heart full of stories that most won't be able to retain and I ask you, "is Life not more real when you share it?"