Our mind is so mysterious at night. It travels to someplace far away and come back before we can even realize. We donβt remember the journey, neither the space-time continuum in which weβve been projected. At times I ask myself if my real life is the one I live in my dreams. If what we call reality is in reality a dream. We are just wanderers searching for a place to call ours. We are not at home in our own homes. When we lay in bed at night we seek something in which weβll fit. Something that will suit us perfectly. And then we wake up. Our shelter cracks and we are driven into our miserable lives. Again. So what is the aim of all that wandering?