Wandering is an art, a bending of the soul toward the edges where forests whisper tales, and roads begin to sing. To the one who wanders, the world has no boundaries, only fragments of a story he writes with each step—a sentence abandoned on a hillside, an unspoken paragraph in the murmur of a river. Every wanderer feels a gentle unrest, a quiet call from the earth, like a yearning that never fades and never eases. That is the beauty of wandering: the paradox of being forever hungry for the road and thirsty for home.

«Wanderer» is more than a word; it is a state you live with every step, as if dancing between memories and scattered dreams. It is being between «was» and «will be,» an uncertain wind searching for purpose between earth and sky. Like a blade of grass growing on the dusty roadside, the wanderer is fragile and yet unyielding, with roots grounded in longing and leaves swaying in the breeze of the unknown.

Walking this way, through the world and through himself, the wanderer carries a map that only he can read, marked with places no one else would call home: a star glimpsed in a cold January night, a patch of field scented with sunflowers and damp earth, a bridge over a river he named simply because he felt it was his. «Wandering is home» and yet it isn’t, because home, for him, is a word lost in the wind.

And still, even the wanderer has roots, though not in the soil but in his own soul, buried deep beneath desires and memories. His roots are stories—an old love that haunts his nights, a song he knows without ever hearing it, an encounter with a stranger who showed him the heart of an unknown city. These are his pieces of “home,” fragments he collects with each step but that never come together as a whole. And perhaps that is what keeps him on the road—the awareness that no matter how far he goes, there will always be something left to discover, something that will deepen his longing and his thirst.

For the wanderer, the sky is an endless canvas, and each star is a thought, a question, or a memory. Where is home? Is it a place, or is it a person? Is it a time, or a season? And thus, a paradox blooms each night: while the sky is his compass, the earth becomes a weight, for the wanderer knows that he can never stay in one place too long. He remains forever a broken wing of yearning, a heart in search, a soul writing its fate along paths worn by dreams and mystery.

With every step, he bears the weight of all the places he has loved and left behind, like a heavy sack of memories. This is the gift and the burden of the wanderer: to carry within him all the dusks that have embraced him and all the dawns that urged him on once more. And so, wandering becomes the very definition of his existence—a timeless calling, a road without end, an unbound longing.