The first time I left the country to live overseas was in 2017. I was 21, and I was sure about everything in my life. I always had that annoying way of speaking, as if I knew everything, as if I were sure about what I was saying. Sometimes it worked, mainly with my students and people who didn’t know me. My friends and family could see through that; they knew me. They knew that behind all the affirmations, there was a big doubt, a huge inconsistency. Maybe I developed that affirmative tone because of that uncertainty, as a way to forget that I never knew where I was at, or what I was made for. Maybe I spent ten years of my life studying methodically the discursive origin of everything because, deep down, I was sure about just one thing: none of the affirmations I read had any consistent truth. From “God is the origin of everything,” to “history is the history of class struggles,” to “gender is performative,” any affirmation I read could never work as an answer. I always found an inconsistency, something uncomfortable. I’ve been sure about many things in my speech: the existence of God, the consistency of communism, the discursive origin of the female body. I used a lot of flags, I tried to be part of many things. When I left my country to live in Italy, I hadn’t realized that I had already started a change that was inevitable, because it was part of me—even when I was always trying to find answers, to grab truths, to keep them close to my skin. The uncertainty was a consubstantial part of what I could barely call myself. The first time I left my country to live overseas, I was sure of one thing: that I would be a reader. I went there to study to become a reader. I was also sure about the proper way to be a reader: studying, maintaining a good grade average, and eventually doing a doctorate. The rest seemed so easy, so given. But those small things that started when I was a kid, with doubts about the consistency of God, exploded into something beyond my awareness. The doubt became a monster that swallowed all my affirmations and digested them into an enormous mass of possibilities. Even then, I tried to stay on course, to keep going, to stick to the plan. But the soil danced beneath my feet, creating clouds of dirt and dust in front of my eyes. Any intent to grab something solid became dust and flew away with the wind. Then, I let myself fall. Floating in the dust, I discovered small things. I stopped needing an answer. I accepted living in the colorful world of doubt, where everything is possible. I stopped trying to be something. The best thing is to be no one. In that way, I do what life puts in front of me: sometimes a bad guy with nice legs, sometimes a tractor, sometimes a book. Sometimes I want to destroy things, sometimes I like what I’m doing. Sometimes I try to say, “It is; this is the thing,” and life takes it away from me to show me again that nothing is made for me because there is nothing more than this skin, which could even disappear tomorrow. Sometimes it’s annoying, sometimes it’s fun. The second time I left my country to live overseas, I was sure of nothing. But I left anyway. Falling was no longer a problem. There was no reason to be scared of anything, because there was nothing to lose.