I Don’t Want to Solo Travel Anymore

I don’t want to travel alone anymore.

There. I said it out loud. I admitted it.

I’ve got so used to being a lone wolf, so fiercely independent in my planning, my making dinners for one, my long, solitary walks across remote towns, that it’s alienating. I’ve sat with myself and by myself amongst chaos and in silence. Amongst hellish situations and on paradise beaches. I’ve been trampled on by life’s situations while I’ve been wounded, and been so close to unity that I felt like God. But perhaps I’ve mistaken going off by myself for spending quality time with myself. And to spend quality time with yourself, you don’t have to necessarily have to avoid everyone else all the time. Ugh — this is all harder than I thought.

Maybe I’m lonely. No. I’m not lonely. I just don’t want to do it all on my own anymore.

Sometimes, my quest to not need anybody, or anything, makes me venture out solo, even when I don’t want to. It feels like such a romantic idea: and in some ways it is, forging out your own path on adventures around the globe like some solo pioneer; being able to get up and leave at any moment and have the road be your home. But lately I’ve realised that sometimes I force myself to do it alone in the name of ‘independence’. I don’t have to anymore.

Christopher McCandless, who the book Into The Wild is about, spent his life on a solo adventure, only to come up with the philosophy: “Life is best shared.” I’ve been to some of the most beautiful places on Earth: waterfalls in Thailand, Dinosaur-shaped beaches in Bali, Fairytale Lagoons in Guatemala. I know full well that simply finding these places isn’t the answer to life’s problems, or to lasting happiness — but there have been many times on my journey when fleeing moments of happiness found me. Yet what do even those fleeting moments of happiness mean if you can’t share the memory and the moment with someone else?

I’ve always struggled with the idea of sharing my life. I share my possessions freely, give my affection and time openly to my friends, hold space for the people in my orbit that need it, write out my deepest thoughts for anyone who wants to read it, and give out my hard earned experience as free advice. But intimacy. Sharing my bed constantly. Having someone take up permanent space in my room. On my skin. It scares me. Maybe that’s why I need to do it.

I used to think the superficial signifiers that the gay and instagram world made me crave were the reasons that I could not be intimate. You know, the “I don’t have abs, so I won’t get a nice boyfriend. I can’t afford nice clothes or a swankier place to live, I haven’t nabbed that elite job that gives me a sense of achievement or a decent paycheck — so I must not be worthy of having an amazing person come into my life…” and all that garbage.

I used to think I had to impress people on the surface. But I actually think it’s deeper than that. What if someone sees through me? Sees that I’m just a swirling void of insecurities and contradictions? What if someone realises that I can be quite selfish and shallow, or not as clever as I think I am? But then the magic thought comes out: what if someone helps me to see myself? Helps me find things that I can’t find alone? What if someone helps me become a better person?

Someone clearly wiser than me said: “You can go fast alone. You can go further, together.” I have been to four continents alone, and tasted such a variety of life that I’m sure it spills over four lifetimes. The road is a fickle beast. I’ve felt free, sometimes. But I also felt trapped by an endlessly nomadic lifestyle. Yet it’s always been alone. But what if I’ve gone as far as I can alone? What if it’s time for a new adventure? What if I can share it with someone?

I thought once that I never wanted to have to answer to anyone. To be free to come and go as I please, wear what I want, turn up when I want. But what if I do want to answer to somebody? What if I want to participate in someone else’s secret world, the garden of their mind where only I can see their weeds and their flowers? What if I want someone to call me out on my shit, and someone to see through my patterns, my false beliefs or my particularly verbose brand of crazy? What I want someone to help me grow? To help see the things I can’t see alone? Here I am then. Whoever you are. Come find me. Go on then. Call me out on my shit. And bring yours too.

Wherever you are, I’ll take you — you chaotic, complicated and imperfect human being. And see me for who I am — a chaotic, complicated and imperfect man who’s just trying to get his heart in a better place. I’m a work in progress — like literally everyone else.

Come and hold my hand. And even though I’ll shake it off because I’ll still pretend that I don’t need anybody, hold it anyways.

And maybe after some time you might let me put my head in that nook — the crevice where your armpit meets your chest. And let me lay there, spinning around all my neurotic nonsense while you scroll through your phone. And let me sleep as I hear you breathing next to me, and you can lie there as I wake and move things back and forth around the room so it feels like i’m doing something productive.

I’ve been waiting my lifetime for you. Wherever you are.