And he was so happy, in the wild. Even if his last days were filled with thoughts of survival, pain, and all negative emotions, but he had been happy. That's all he's ever strived for, that's all he was.
No regrets, just... content. I wanted to be jut that, happy.
Instead I'm alone, not lonely, alone. The right people, right places, the right time, the wrong age. Frustrating.
Wanting to be able to walk outside, be by their side, enjoy their company, grow closer, learn, discover, travel, expreience, progress. But it won't work. Wrong age.
And my friends, "friends", they only call when covenient for their side, not whenever, not when I need them. Barely.
Yet the others, their presence comforts me, and that's an unimaginable feeling.
Morocco, Istanbul, Alaska, the Maritimes, France, Amsterdam, New York, Indonesia, South Africa, all of these! With them, with friends. Amazing friends, and being happy.
To Chris Mccandless, the one who opens eyes.
YOU ARE READING
Essais
No FicciónA collection of short things I've been writing for the past few years, just a couple of essays from the essence.
