He Was a Nomad

 
He was a nomad, for all he knew, pushing the last strokes of color on the cold restaurant wall. For years, he recognized no borders. The entire world was at his chapped, painted fingertips. Yet somehow, his traveling soul always searched for a way back to the land where he was born. He knew not where it was. At least, not anymore. Yet he carried it around with him in a grey duffle bag, with the old brushes, the stained color jars, and the rest of his useless little things. His land had become the paint stuck between the bristles of his frayed brush, and pasted on the walls of people he barely knew. He was a nomad, true, but one with a land, a distant and beautiful land he barely remembered, yet one he knew he would never leave.