You sit in these rooms, these tiny shoebox framed rooms that are sticky & hot, being blown by the fan watching people you don’t know and probably won’t ever meet again waltz in and out. And it’s those times, when you’re sitting in the aforementioned rooms, that you recognize the strangeness. The still movements of people, the differences, the stories. Everyone seems to carry around one & it is in hosteling and traveling that you find many out. Deep into the cavities of the hostel walls lie the duality of traveling—everyone is in the same boat with this immense void of homesickness paired with a sickening longing for adventure. It creeps up on you when you aren’t even looking, or listening. It hits you when your financial funds start to dwindle. It is fear, it is lust for places sometimes unreachable through circumstances out of your control. And then you think to yourself, everyone is just the same and different. And the same. It gets weird out here, where everyone is just a stranger. But that is the duality of it all. It is the risk and the unknown that makes it. It is the duality of it all that makes it.