Whenever I find myself meandering down a busy street, across a space hustling and bustling with blooded bodies, I almost always take a moment to wonder about the stories underlying these strange faces.
In a rather voyeuristic fashion, I gaze upon these unrecognisable people, and think about who they are. How they are. Why they are.
I imagine their hopes and their dreams and their fears. I contrive stories to fit my initial impression of them, based on no more than their outward, physical appearance.
I imagine that some of them are in love. I wonder how they see love’s concept. I think about what their lives involve, and how involved they are in their lives. I wonder if they are lovers of art, or if they think art is stupid? I wonder if they’re athletes, or how they treat their friends, or if they treat their friends better or worse than their family members? I wonder if they’ve been hurt, how they’ve been hurt, if they still believe in hope, if they believe that hope is a virtue?
I wonder if they also muse over this idle reverie.
I spend a lot of time ruminating on the point that there are lives out there that I’ll never know, not too dissimilar to my own, that are moulding, shaping, transpiring – living – right now, as I type these words, as you read them.
Sometimes, in this socially engineered realm of mass narcissism and collectively bound self-righteousness, it’s difficult to conceive that there are people out there, other than you, and those you care about.
In this world of fast food, reality television, upsizing, up selling, cross selling, cyber socialising, two minutes is too long what exactly is it that you have for me? It’s sometimes easy to fall into a bag of solipsism, and allow your existence to collapse into loneliness’ forlorn hand, where you live out your days trapped in a yellow submarine.
It’s easy to get caught up in a bubble we ourselves have created, and block off all vantage points connecting us to out there. It’s easy to forget that life, as it is, beyond the framework in which we are, in which we feel and see and dance, there are people, just like us, all doing their best to get by, to see the morrow’s shine.
Because even though this might sound a little bit hippy dippy, or airy fairy, or channel a little too much Deepak Chopra; despite the fact that we are all separate beings, despite the point that we are all individuals, with our own personal tastes and hopes and dreams and fears, despite that we each possess our own unique blueprint, and despite that we are all utterly different – strangers – we are all, fundamentally, at our core, the same.
And what is it exactly that brings us together? What is it that links us all into the same chain, setting aside any astute scientific analysis that sees us all as strings or quarks or sub-atoms?
Well – we are all humans. We are all earthlings.
And we all harbour only one single wish in this life of ours. One single desire that drives us all.
When you boil down the human mission into one single burnt up droplet, there is only one propeller sitting restlessly behind the veil of mind-noise that has blanketed our collective’s, modern person. When you strip the human species down to our naked navel, and gaze into the abyss composing precisely what it is that feeds the source in which we sprung, all that you’ll find is one single wish.
The wish to just be.
I know that it’s common for people nowadays to emphasise the point that being is not enough. That it is of vital importance that we make something of our lives. That we become our potential. That we achieve and do and see and experience all that we can. But being, as a mere survival instinct, as a reward in and of itself, is what brings us all together.
It’s what unites us. It’s what allows us to know and feel that we’re alive.
For if we are living, we are surviving. And if we are surviving, then we’re being.
If we’re living and surviving and being – then we’re doing all right.
And so whenever I stare into the cluttered fields of human interaction, whenever I take a few moments out of my day to brush my eyes over unfamiliar faces, over unfolding lives, I always try to remember that everyone, without exclusion, without exception, is just trying to be.
I try to remind myself that no matter the ostensible differences that separate us on the surface, beyond the divides and disagreements and wavering concepts, these people, my fellow, weird humans, all hold the same wish. The same need. The same hope.
Humans-are-weird. Has gone all soppy and shit. Tomfuckery.