I was born to travel. And despite I was a very quiet child growing up in a tiny little apartment in the centre of Milan, at the tender age of 3 my favourite game was tying up my possession in a bundle to carry at the end of a stick over my shoulder, and leave for a new adventure. This I believe it was an irrefutable sign of my nature. I was attracted by the unknown, curious and passionate with the world out there.
It was this impulse the result of a wish to evade reality, the spring lead people traveling for some, I don’t know. My infancy, saving traumatic events still removed and unknown to me, has been quiet and happy until the age of 7, when my parents suddenly split. So in my case I would exclude this desire of traveling was a consequence of lack of love, escaping from me or from a too severe mom.
My lovely mom, being worry of such an adventurous spirit, decided I was too independent, and when one day I announced her, while I was leaving my home door, the reason of my daily trip was to look for another mom, she closed me out and when I came back she let me cry for hours, until I didn’t solemnly swore I would never again look for another mom.
This episode worked well also to shut down also my hunger of adventures. At least until the age of 17, when at the end of a scholastic season of teens torments, resulting in a discovery of my love for literature and writing, the sleeping demon woke up.