There is joy in traveling alone. You’ll be blessed with tranquillity, of free rein without room for compromise, and mostly, you’ll have all the time in the world for yourself.
But that last benefit is a double edged swords, for it left you far too many moments to let your mind wander.
Which is exhausting, when you keep musing about ghosts of your pasts or the happiness you’d never have. Of words you wish you could’ve said and feelings you wish you could’ve conveyed because in that exact minute, the moment was right. Before it faded and you’re left with residual regrets and hopelessness.
Or maybe because you know there’s so many ways this journey of yours could go wrong. And it scares you.
Not the possibility of an end, no. It scares you because somewhere, in the closet of your mind, a slithering voice assures you that maybe this isn’t so bad of an end.
That maybe at least then, you’ll be able to rest your weary bones and worn out heart.
It’s not like there’s anyone waiting for you at the end of this road anyway.
À la mort,
I miss the time when being alone is a blessing, before loneliness plagues me and your absence suffocates me.