I began my life as a young adult finding things along the way. I went out from the circumstance I knew into life which was not yet mine, and made it mine. As so, I explored for some years along distant roads and over mountains and even under the sea.

There are seeds to findOut there,Where life is strangeFind them,For a lifetime of bounty

And those places where I went did not become my own, though I remember them like photos I did never take. It was instead the going to such places which mattered to me, not the places themselves, but the fact that I went.

And I took back with me the fact that I went: nothing to show anyone, nothing much to share, few stories to relate—but the fact that I went. And I lived my life as the man who went. And the man who went alone.

Going alone robs us of the ability to share. What we do then becomes hearsay to the rest, as there's nobody to back our claims, or laugh together in remembrance, or recall tears along the way. But that is the point—of going alone. To bring home not stories, or laughter, or tears even, but the consequence of the fact that we went—alone.

There are seeds of a sort discovered is solitude which are hidden to those who do not go alone. Hidden seeds, which cling to our passing solitary figure like weedy burrs to socks—seeds coming along wherever we go, perhaps remaining unfound 'till nightfall, when we remove our shoes to note what chaffed us while we went, what scraped at us while we walked, rubbing soft flesh raw, opening new wounds perhaps, and making us weak and unwilling to carry on. But we carried on, and brought with us the chaffing things, which must remain now with us always, if not the thing which chaffs, but the dear scar and healing of having been alone to somewhere which does leave its mark.

Such is the fact, that we went—alone.