I lean against the rails, waiting for the sun to rise. I seem to do that so often these days, watching the waxing light through half-lidded eyes. This morning though is warmer than the last, and I watch the world brighten without a shiver.

Beyond the deep crater lakes of topaz and milky blue the sky is changing colors. I love places like this, where the subtle shifts in nature’s beauty change with the light of dawn.

The white noise of people behind me ruins the moment, reminds me that this place isn’t for me. Locals sell coffee to tourists, a dozen camera shutters click, strangers lean over the rails to grab selfies, and people complain about the short walk. Everyone wants photos, but my taste for them grew bitter with each passing moment. No one stays long.

I feel so dirty at places like this. The press of bodies and the squawking noise of lost souls overrides the sensors in my brain. I want to slink into the bushes and escape from it all, to be alone just for one moment.

At home I search for quiet places, places where I don’t feel so overwhelmed, where I don’t feel like one of the masses. I go out of my way to be alone in the woods, on mountaintops, beneath waterfalls. All I want is the deafening silence of nature’s call.

But here I am never alone, and the feeling of adventure tastes sour in my mouth. I am merely one of many, not one of myself.

I am a stranger in a sea of strangers.

I want to be less than a stranger, I want to be less than one of many amongst the crowds of pines and yawning mountains.

I want to be no one, drawn by the emptiness of an ample landscape.

I want a quiet place, that is all I ask.