I don't take any photographs. I travel a lot by myself, and I

“I don’t take any photographs. I travel a lot by myself, and I feel weird taking photos on my own.” Thus spoke Jamie Bell, and in his words lies a quiet reflection on solitude, memory, and the way we hold the world within us. His thought is not merely about the absence of photographs—it is about the difference between capturing life and living it, between the gaze outward through a lens and the inward gaze that preserves the moment in the soul.

When Bell says he does not take photographs, he is not scorning the art, but confessing that in his solitude, the camera feels like an unnatural companion. For when we lift a lens, we seek to prove to others, or perhaps even to ourselves, that we were present. But when one travels alone, there is no need to prove—there is only the raw communion between the traveler and the world. The image is not stored on paper or screen, but engraved upon the heart. Thus, Bell reminds us that not all journeys are meant to be shared in images; some are meant to remain as secret treasures within the memory of the wanderer.

This truth is old. Think of the philosopher Heraclitus, who wandered alone and spoke of the rivers that could never be stepped in twice. He left no photographs, no paintings of his solitary walks, but his vision of constant change has outlived centuries. Or recall the tale of explorers who crossed mountains and oceans, not with cameras but with courage. Their memories were carried in journals, in songs, in the lines of their weathered faces. And yet, their stories endure more powerfully than countless nameless photographs that fill the world today. For sometimes, to see with one’s own eyes, to feel with one’s own heart, is enough.

Yet there is also vulnerability in Bell’s words. To be alone in travel can be both liberating and isolating. Without a companion, one may feel the absence of someone to bear witness, to confirm that the journey was real. A photograph, for many, replaces that companion. But Bell chooses differently: he entrusts the moment to memory itself, unrecorded and unshared. This is a noble risk, for memory is fragile, but it is also the most human of archives. Where photographs capture the shell, memory captures the soul.

There is wisdom here for all. In a world drowning in images, where every meal, every sunset, every face is frozen into pixels, Bell’s words call us to pause. To resist the urge to always capture, and instead to experience. To let the sound of the wind, the taste of the food, the sight of the horizon live within us, without needing proof. A photograph may be looked at a thousand times, but the memory of being present—of standing in that place, breathing that air—cannot be replaced.

Consider the story of Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, the aviator and author of The Little Prince. As he flew across deserts and oceans, he carried with him not cameras, but words. His memories became stories that touched millions, far deeper than any snapshot could. His witness was not a photograph, but a fable that lives on in the hearts of children and adults alike. So too, the traveler who forgoes photographs may still leave behind treasures more enduring—stories, wisdom, and a changed soul.

The lesson, then, is this: do not fear to travel without the camera. Do not fear to live without recording. Trust that what you carry in your heart is more lasting than what you store on a screen. When you journey, let your eyes drink deeply, let your spirit absorb, and let the moment live within you. Write if you must, speak if you can, but above all, be present. For presence is the greatest record, and the soul, when attentive, never forgets.

Thus, Jamie Bell’s words remind us: life is not always for display—it is for living. Guard your moments not as trophies, but as treasures. And when you walk alone, know that you are not less for your lack of photographs, but perhaps more—for you carry your journey not in pixels, but in the eternal silence of your soul.