To travel to an unwelcoming terrain is often discomforting in the beginning. Getting to the Spitian cold desert at an altitude of above 14,000 ft. makes you wonder with awe & be shit-scared at the same time at every turn of the road. Not to mention, the news of landslides & general lack of oxygen keeps up the drama to the full gear.
But like in real life, travel shows that getting uncomfortable is how mankind has always evolved… A new dimension, a fresh perspective is added to one’s life, opening up the Pandora box of unfettered possibilities to life, love, & human endurance.
There are schizophrenic dual-selves in each one of us – a self which is an artist’s vision of ‘who one can be sans society’.
Perhaps, an identity that’s doesn’t try to conform, to fit in, or compromise.
There’s that secret fantastical-self for each one of us who revels in absolute freedom, interacts to the point, & is dramatically confident like a ‘super-hero’.
A writer, they say, is unfortunately caught up in countless such selves –
a secular-liberal at heart who disdains the idea of lack of ‘freedom of speech’, but is forced to choose silence; a sarcastic asshole who is hidden behind the veil of a chirpy exterior; an anxious over thinker who is super-confident & alive when alone on the road to wanderlust.
Traveling for me thus works as a breather from these countless selfves, bringing me a little closer to ‘who I was born to be’, hidden beneath perfectly conditioned layers of societal falsehoods.