One morning we set out, our brains illuminated, our hearts full of resentment and bitter desires, and we go following the rhythm or the wave, lulling our infinite in the finite of the seas:
Some, joyful at fleeing a wretched motherland; others, the horror of their birthplace; a few, astrologers drowned in the eyes of some woman...some tyrannic being with dangerous perfumes.
Not to be changed into beasts, they get drunk with space, with light, and with fiery skies; the ice that bites them, the suns that bronze them, slowly efface the bruise of the kisses.
But the true voyagers are only those who leave just to be leaving; hearts light, like balloons, they never turn aside from their fatality, and without knowing why they always say: "let's go!"
Those who's desires have the form of the clouds, and who, as the raw recruit dreams of the cannon, dream of vast voluptuousness, changing and strange, whose name the human mind has never known!
-VOYAGE by Charles Baudelaire (artistic translation by Elwyn Ellis)
photos via: the selby, frontiermagic, fashiontoast, wildfox boy, tumblr, flickr:jessie roth, and misc.
