This poem applies to many travelers who travel the net before they travel the rest:
The Solipsist’s Travels
T’is a world of mirrors,
Not one of horrors.
When you with yourself travel,
Non of that, “ where shall we dine?" drivel.
You see mostly aspects of you.
And, every time the mirror shows a smiling you,
You say, “Why, thank you!”
“How do you do?”
What a surprise it is when the aspect is not you,
But a strange illusion, always called ‘Who?’
Which keeps creeping up on you,
On the earth, the mountains, the beaches and the blue.
It appear in lobbies,
And tiny cubbies.
Even on the front seats of taxi cabbies,
And transmits thoughts of things like rabies.
Still…., I like traveling with myself,
My one and only existential self.
And when they, the illusions ask:
“How do you enjoy the sun and the bask?”
I say, “You’re so right! When you are a crowd, t’is no mean task.”