When people write stories about themselves, it is for a reason. When they write about others, it must be for a good one.
For the second time in my life, I happened to be part of a story of a friend who wanted to leave.
I am one of those who decided, at some point of their life, to leave, no matter what, for no matter where. In the last 11 years, I lived in 12 different countries, for short or longer time. I stopped asking myself what prompted me originally to follow this life and what still does, like people stop wondering why they wake up in the morning and go to bed at night.
For two of my friends, at some point of their life, what I do, what I am or what I became in these eleven years, must have represented a source of inspiration and probably the last hope to find a relief from the unbearable pain they were going through.
Both of my friends were looking for a place to go, and very similarly they thought that I could help to find one, far enough from where they were and could not stay any longer.
But their urge to escape brought them further than any place I could have ever offered.
For Chiara and Fede