I'm not sure why but I think I made it through Italy and most of the way through India...but I never quite got past Indonesia.
Well the other night, I was flipping through the pages and came upon this passage:
The context is that the writer is in Rome and suffering from a serious episode of Depression and Loneliness and she is having a conversation with herself. This is where she realizes she can be her own friend and that even though she isn't surrounded by the familiar or the comforting, she has herself.
I don't know where I am going with this blog entry. Maybe I am just jealous of her and the fact that she can love herself like that. Probably because most days, I am my own worst enemy.