To emigrate is to carry the soul lightly, as if leaving behind a life suspended, still in the distance. It is arriving at a new corner of the world and feeling as though you are reinventing yourself, as though you are being born again. Like a blank page, like an unwritten book, every step writes a new story, and in that journey, you allow yourself to be different, free, open to wonder.

The place and its people shape you, and with each change of horizon, it feels as if a new version of yourself is born. Could it be that every place, every land, transforms us? Here, nothing is as it was in the corner left behind, where familiar faces and cherished customs continue to beat, where language is a safe bridge. Even when sharing the same tongue, language has a nuance, a rhythm that is not the same; every gesture, every word, is a different echo.

And then the question arises: Who are we without those we love? As Sartre once said, “the other reveals us.” Perhaps, in the end, we are a blend of everything we have lived and everyone we have met along the way. To emigrate is to open yourself to those changes, to be shaped by every encounter, to be a sculpture in progress, where every new place adds a line, a new form to the soul.