. . .

It's gone. Yesterday I got off the bus at Sukhothai and absent-mindedly left my travel journal behind. The guest house owner was kind enough to call the bus station, the bus company, even acquired the phone number for the bus driver but to no avail. He made two trips to the bus station today as well and now I must come to a bitter acceptance. All my thoughts and notes from India, Nepal, Peru, and the beginning of Southeast Asia, gone. Only one other time have I misplaced a notebook, and it was due to the same reason: neglect. (I was carrying a small notebook in my back pocket at all times and had been doing so with dwindling inspiration for years, but I stopped after this sparsely used one went missing.) Again, I haven't been writing, sincerely at least, and the manifestation is departure.

I've lost and left behind so much. Death, distance, and disassociation. And now my traveling companion. I write here in remembrance of lost spaces for my words, seeking familiarity to console my solitude.