I have seen a thousand worlds and traveled across them through hundreds of methods, yet I never found home. Magic, interdimensional portals, faster-than-light travel, spirited away, I’ve seen it all. No realm was too weird or advanced for me to comprehend, and no people were too alien or outlandish for me to communicate with.

The individuals I met often asked me where I was from or who I initially was before embarking on this journey, but I don’t know. I can’t tell them. It didn’t matter I still retain my memories because I can no longer feel them. They’re merely reels in my mind, a movie I no longer live in. I know my origins, but they’re not mine anymore.

I don’t particularly like discussing my past with others, at least when they ask me questions to show me pity or sympathy. It doesn’t matter anymore, or maybe it still does, which is why I avoid it. Some will often claim my past is intricately linked to the future I’m pursuing, but I don’t believe them. Or, maybe I’m afraid to.

I don’t want to admit it, but after all the things I’ve seen since that fateful day, I’m no different from a god to my past self. However, a god is not what I am nor what I want to be, not when my heart remains mortal. Of all the worlds I traveled to, not a single deity I met faces the same struggle that I do, so I can’t possibly be one, right?

Sometimes, I wonder if I truly know what I want and why I continue my search. I tell everyone I merely wished to settle down at a place I can call home and spend the rest of my days there. I say that when I’ve already mastered my ability, granting me a passage to the realm I was born in. Is that not my home, the birthplace of my existence?

But… I never went back. I didn’t take even a peek. I mustn’t, because if I was wrong, and going back doesn’t complete me, then does home even exist to me anymore? Did it ever exist? That’s why I always told them I can’t return home. It’s easier that way.

Once, there was a child who told me I should build my home instead of searching for it. I had spent a considerable amount of time in that particular realm because it matched closely to the one I came from. They told me, instead of looking aimlessly, why not take root there and build the home I like? After all, I’ve amassed knowledge and power beyond an ordinary mortal.

I considered it and attempted it. However, as I toiled to build my residence and relationships with the locals, my heart remained empty. I tried desperately to find meaning in that place and the people in it, to form a genuine bond I don’t want to break, but I can’t. None of my efforts ever filled the impossibly wide hole in my chest. That’s why I left without saying goodbye.

The moment I became aware of my desire is the moment I wonder if it’ll ever be fulfilled. A woman I met on my journey told me that a home is not a place but the people I stay with. If that is the truth, and I dearly hope it is not, then I may never find one. Not once did I meet a traveler like myself, and not once did I even so much as hear a rumor about someone like me.

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More than sorrow, I was enraged. Furious. I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs, cursing whichever cosmic or supernatural entity cursed me with this fate. Why did I deserve this? To wander endlessly through an infinite world, forever disappointed by the false hopes I encounter.

“Why not kill yourself?” suggested a talking raccoon upon listening to my story. “Doesn’t sound like you’ll ever find what you’re looking for, so why not end the pain now?” they said.

I don’t have an answer. I want to end the pain, but not like this. I’ve seen much, and I want to see more. If only the hole in my chest doesn’t exist. If only I have someone to share all this with. I know there is more to life, even with my cursed existence, but I can’t enjoy any of it.

In every world I visit, I’m often accompanied by at least someone, a companion, to show me their world and teach me about it. All the wonderful creatures, cultures, and creations within it. Sometimes, my pain is dulled, and I find myself enjoying what they want me to see. Sadly, there’s always a disconnect between them and me. Despite my best efforts to paint my inner world with words and even images, they can’t understand me, not after all I’ve been through.

So, I always leave in the end, hoping that next time, I’ll be lucky. I’ll finally find the home I deserve. Everyone deserves a home, so that includes me, right? Why can’t I find it, then? How much longer should I journey to reach my destination?

There are times when I meet people who envy my fate, or at least I thought they did. I don’t know if they fully comprehend the consequences or if they’re merely intrigued by the novelty of being able to see so many different worlds. Perhaps they won’t experience the same agony as me if this fate was theirs, then in that case, why was I given this fate? Why couldn’t it have been someone else? Why do I have to go through all this simply to seek comfort so many others achieve so easily?

I grew bitter. I tried to stay bitter, thinking that was an excellent way to give my fate a middle finger, but that didn’t help me. It only pushes away all the potential within my grasp.

I often thought back to what that kid said, about how I can choose to build instead of search. It failed once, but it doesn’t mean it’ll always fail. I told myself that, I tried to reason with myself, but I can’t do it. I. Just. Can’t. It hurts more to fail at building something than at searching because then I’ll be to blame for my failure, not my luck.

This… path. It has been so long. Over time, I tried to comfort myself, telling myself that perhaps the road could be my companion and my home. I don’t need to find a place or a person. This neverending journey will be enough, and I should learn to be content with it. If others probably can do it, then sure, I can too, right?

It lessened the pain, yes. Each night, before I go to sleep, doesn’t feel as bitter, even when I reside in another’s home. But it’s still there. My desire haunts me still. It still wants a home that may have evolved into something that can never be achieved. I fear it becomes a symbol of the impossible.

Perhaps, one day, the shape of the home I envision will change into the lonely path ahead of me. When that time comes, I will no longer curse my fate, and I will be doubly overjoyed if I do find a home I previously imagined. It’s good, right? Frankly, I don’t know.

For now, my ride awaits. This time, I’ll be traveling to another dimension molecule by molecule. Wish me luck.