Back from the Heart Of Darkness

Dear Mr. Stanley,
First I want to thank you for the title of your book, that I stole for this post's title.
Next, perhaps I should make a comment about the Congo you explored and described a long time ago, before you were dead.

It's quite simple: I can't. I can't formulate an opinion about that too big country. There were days during those three weeks where I dreamt I was back home. I would cry alone in a corner and tell no one, because I knew it would scandalise them. I was in fucking Africa, having a once-in-a-lifetime experience. I was shown some of the most miserable people on this earth, I had to be there and show compassion. Never ending compassion and support. I should have thanked the heavens for my lucky situation. And I didn't feel like it.
But they couldn't understand. Understand that to feel okay I need to be almost invisible. Watch and listen in without being the centre of the attention.
Something that is quite impossible in a country full of black people, especially if you're white. Especially if you're white foreigner. Especially if you're a young white foreigner.

There were moments I wanted to be alone that much that I snarled at those guys. Not nice. And I didn't give a damn.

And then there were those other moments, mostly on the road, when you realise the beauty of the place, the kindness of the people. Moments that made up almost all of the bad experiences.

I know I didn't live up to the experience and probably was unworthy of it. But I'm tellin' no one except y'all. Or I'll be that spoiled sociopath, psychopath, that sorry excuse for a human being.

I wonder why I was born a human, I differ so much from most of them that I really am a sorry excuse for a human being. But then again everyone differs so much from the others. Guess we're all sorry excuses for human beings.