To travel is losing oneself in an environment quite larger than you. You realise how small you are in the grand scheme of things. That you still have a long way to go and that your way is paved with unfamiliar faces racing past you in a whisker.
To travel is to find no time for writing. You want to write longer pieces but you’re thinking, you’re observing things that are happening, things that will take time to accumulate inside your head and form a solution to the puzzle that is unfolding in front of you. A thousand faces sunken into the despair of daily travel.
A writer stops using his hands because he is using his brain. To soak in the old couple sitting across you idly doing nothing, looking at something they’ve long lost. To soak in why we need the distraction of a mobile phone to ward off boredom. To soak in why we can’t handle silence.
You’re always on the run so you can’t pen down your thoughts, all you can do is trust your memory that it will flash and remember all the images that caused you stop and think for a second until you move forward again.
We can’t understand ourselves so we try to understand the world outside. To stop relating as an “I” altogether and be in two places at the same time. In your mind and where you are. Sometimes the travelled time is just a blur in your memory like the people that you see standing, as you are in vehicle full of motion causing them to be unrecognisable.
The huge palaces you see, adjacent to which the roadside beggars sleep, all remind you of the irony of the world. People smile and people grunt, they talk to strangers and give a cold shoulder to known ones. All happens in a span of one minute. It feels like you’ve seen it all when you an old lady struggle to move up the stairs and see young men rushing past her denying her the help she needs. But do you help? No, you just look.