There’s something delicious about traveling alone, except when you don’t like yourself. It’s a passing feeling mostly, but I find it creeping on suddenly. It becomes relentless and there is nothing about your reflection or your internal landscape that you feel could pass as lovely. It4’s at those times when I find myself thinking that every passing person can see right through me, but I do not know what it is their gaze passes through. Sometimes I think they are staring extra hard because whatever makes me up is so thick and so dense that it’s hard to make out. They are disgusted because not only am I not transparent as normal, but they can’t figure out what the hell that gross brownish pus stuff is. Like hardened lard, or something. It’s an interesting place to find myself in because there is no one around that is familiar enough to distract me. Often times I can’t speak the language so my tongue is further restricted. Maybe this is where I learn to become my own best friend again. I hope so, because when you’re alone and you don’t like who is with you, it’s very easy to wonder what the point is, and make plans to drastically change.

But then, there is also something stubborn and immovably self-confident lurking beneath the surface that allows you on some level to know this to will pass, and maybe for now staring out the train window and focusing on small pretty things is a good idea.