I have picked up my pen to write for pleasure again. a semester had intervened in between. My writing seems stilted to me, my thoughts disjointed. Still, I'll have to write to get over the debris blocking the flow. I am on my way to Manali, and then hopefully, beyond, to the Spiti Valley, a solo trip. And I'm unsure whether to rejoice in my solitariness, or feel sad about my loneliness. And I realize it completely is my choice. I will have decided by the end of this 14 hour bus ride, surely.
It is amusing to look back on the 20 years of my life, replay parts of various journeys, and feel again what those snapshots, snatches of conversations, glimpses of tracks branching away hold for you.
So many people to observe. Co-passengers, people in passing cars, truck drivers. So many different lives. Wouldn't it be interesting to get to talk to them all, for even 5 minutes? Get them to talk about their lives till you met them? Might help you get your own life into perspective. Not a complete perspective, but at least wider than the current one, maybe?
This will be a good journey, I feel. I can't base my feelings on evidence, but the words yet to be written hold the future.
Humans are a cruel lot. How they've kept on chipping away at the surface of the Earth. They haven't even slept nights since they can control light. Toiling, toiling away at their own destruction. Accelerating towards a fall that'll just about wipe them off. There's an almost full moon shining through the bus windows, mist over the foothills. Or is it just smoke? Ghoulish humans driving trucks and buses all over the once virgin mountain forests. Abuse. Abuse of our existence. Abuse by our own efforts, because we don't know when to stop. Where do we end? When are we ending?
Travelling solo is nice. It's maturing. It makes you talk to strangers. It makes you break your own inhibitions. There is no family to look around for. You are your own family up here, and some new acquaintances who mean well.