There was once a boy who traveled so far until he became a man. By the time he stopped, he could barely remember his home, why he had left, or if there was anyone waiting for him. His boyhood was a dream, painted with fleeting glimpses of different people in different places.
Through all those years he carried with him nothing more than a notebook and a pencil sharpened with a pen knife so often that there was barely anything left. Sitting down by the side the road, in front of a house that was older than him and his country, he began flipping through the pages of his notebook.
Between the pages, he felt the strain of age. His feet sore, his back aching, his eyes blurry. Looking at the scars on every part of his body, he remembers how and when. Not all of them were accidents. He wonders how much further can he go, and if the future will be kind to him.
It was then that he realised he was still a boy, and continued walking.