Odd choice, India, if I wanted to be alone. But being alone is an important part of journeys. Alone time. A lonely time. Alone with all of India. I feel more alone when I’mm jostled by a billion strangers than I do somewhere wild and empty.

I miss those I have left behind. Being alone adds a sweet lick of melancholy to watching water buffalo wallow in the river. I can’t ever share this moment with anybody. But being alone also adds a sheen of silence to each sunset or moonrise. Gilding the lily. The greedy pleasure of having it all to yourself.
In a place I have never been to, I love the continual exposure to new people, new faces and new ideas. There are times when this is almost unbearable, heightening my sense of alone-ness. To everyone I meet I must explain my name, my story, my life. But the gems I unearth vindicate the repetition and the inevitable shallowness of many of the other interactions.

Being alone is hard. It forces me to be resilient, malleable and flexible. It allows me to be lazy, selfish and sloppy too. But it is my responsibility not to be those things. I enjoy being alone for selfish reasons. There are no ties. I can do what I want, go where I want, be who I want. I love the ownership of my days that travelling gives me. I’mm surrounded by a billion people and nobody knows my name. I can be intimidated by that or relish the freedom and anonymity. There is a fine line between loneliness and solitude.

When I choose to walk a difficult path alone I have to acknowledge that if I fail it is because of me. The flip side is that if I succeed it is also down to me. So I learn more about myself when I’mm alone. There are no excuses.