Words by Gutther Bawl.

My attention snaps back to my book. The chattering of a small troop of monkeys atop a ledge ahead of me denotes an argument over something that, to them at least, doesn't appear trivial.

The sun beams are racing each other through the clouds, as dawn breaks, determined to be the first to the ground to illuminate the cobbles. A man wheels his cart, briefly stopping to converse with a shop keeper who's sweeping the entrance to his little shack. The two of them, setting about their business for the day, earning enough probably for some food, and a wooden toy for their youngsters.

Tashichho Dzong, a fortified monastery and the government palace looms over the small square in front of me. A small child chases what looks like a homemade string ball, loosely overseen by an elder, most probably a grandparent, who's interest in the child's safety hovers between somewhat absent and non-existent. We briefly share eye contact. I sense his suspicion of me. I'm noticeably different, an outsider, and sitting alone.

In a country where success is measured by gross national happiness - instead of the gross domestic product of our materialised West - loneliness is viewed with suspicion. Loneliness equates to unhappiness. I can virtually feel the interrogation going on in the man's mind.

"How can this man possibly be up to any good? He is devoid of company. Are you not sad?"

My time in Thimphu, the capital of Bhutan, is coming to an end. 2 months of introspection, reflection and more importantly, time spent away from writing has really lent perspective. A Buddhist enclave on the Western Himalayas, you'd struggle to find somewhere less atuned to the manic capitalism of London, New York, or San Francisco.

Had that interrogation occurred 2 months ago, I would have probably crumbled under the weight of the questions and responded, "yes". I arrived lonely, but not alone.

I sit here alone, but not lonely.

Throughout my fortunate career, I've seen ordinary people transformed to heroes before my eyes; only for those same heroes to be later shunned by the very people who built them up.

Decades of brilliant moments, which if they ran together would constitute a highlight reel of the seconds before and after the genesis of immortality.

The trouble with the mob, though, is that they are fickle. These moments which seem to redefine reality, in a few days disappear like a dune inexorably worn away by the tide.

The players are the fans, and the fans are the players. A benign force powers Premier League Bowling, each player gives according to their abilities, and takes according to their needs.

The little boy departs with his string ball, the elder a few slower steps behind.

My journey home ends today. I’ll be back among bright lights and even brighter dreams.The story continues on August 1st. Utopia feels closer than ever.

Forever your humble servant, keep 'em rolling,

Gutther Bawl