Into the bowels of my soul

Growing up, I have learned that the best journeys occur when I visit someone.
Even the encounter with Lebanon was like this, the first time was to visit the relatives of Syrian friends met in Italy, and then from the second time on it was a continuous greeting saying, "see you soon, inshallah", leaving with tears on my face for nostalgia of who I was saying goodbye and then return each time with a big smile hugging all those I previously had left.
Each time, more and more, and more and more often for four years.
This time it is different.
Each time it was a little bit, but this time I felt it inside me during the last days, before leaving.
The passage of time in recent years has shown me how people's lives go on, although I keep an eye on their daily lives depending on the period.
For some, things more or less remain unchanged, the "usual" life in the tent, with the "usual" work that comes and goes.
On others, god or destiny play yet another dirty trick, an unexpected illness, the death of a loved one, the beginning of a nightmare due to unjust persecution.

Over the years, some become more and more desperate, violence in the family increases, the hours spent by children at school during the week decrease, the commitment to the constant search for daily little jobs becomes more and more discontinuous.
There are others, but unfortunately there are not many of them, who maintain the strength that I met the first time, or who reveal it to me any day after a long time since we first met.
Who of these are worth keeping coming back to?
Is it worth it for the eyes that shed more and more tears each time?
Or for those who show obstinacy in the depths of their soul?
I believe that the answer cannot depend only on the great sense of joy in meeting again every time, nor on the value I can give to my listening that takes on part of the pain of the other, nor on those moments of serendipity, in which for a moment you realize that you are facing a miracle, someone who is the living proof that you can die and then come back to life, and that every day is a chance to do so.
It is worth it for the profound sense that is inside me, in the bowels of my soul and of which I am in an on and off search.
Or rather, I think I wish it were so, but it is the hardest thing to do.
And thus, in this research with ups and downs, the temporary answer I give myself is that it is worth living all this to be able to tell it.