I was on a train from Roma to Perugia, passing incredibly beautiful views of Italian land and villages, I saw little houses from afar, some stand alone, some gathered together, some line on flat ground, some parade on hilly terraces. The thought came to me that, maybe, and just maybe, what makes life interesting is the fact that there are so many lives out there. I wondered what's going on in the red-walled house on top of the hill, does the kid grow up well? Are they religious? What about the guy lives on the second floor of a flat? How does he reach the place he works at? There are infinite variations of life that are currently on going at the same time as our own. Which is the same reason why we read books, we watch movies, we travel. And maybe if we focus less on our very own life, life itself might get more interesting. But it's just maybe.
