stopbeingbored:

Sometimes, when the world is not a blur and colours have a meaning and the sky is actually clear for once, I look around in wonder. I look at houses and down streets and at flowers and the patterns of brick walls in alleys and graffiti, both the beautiful kind and the easily scratched names in the old chipped paint of public buildings. I look at birds and clouds and sunbasking cats and happy dogs. And I look at people. People who seem so normal, who walk crowded places and silent streets and some smile and some don’t and every motion has a history that I will never know, like every hair colour and piece of clothing and piercing and tattoo and lack thereof has a story that I will never be told and can only dream about, so I do. Like this girl over there who looks so normal. Who is someone’s daughter and someone’s friend and may just one day be someone’s mother, too. Who probably eats three meals a day and follows The Voice. Maybe she likes white chocolate better than regular one and loves almonds but has a peanut allergy. She is alone now, but she probably has a bunch of friends, some closer than others and all there for each other, someone to spend the evenings with and the nights and to watch telly with. Maybe she owns a dog. And this young man over there who is someone’s son and someone’s friend and who you see here every day but never noticed until now. Who might like the smell of garlic and just may prefer pepperoni pizza over steak. He probably has a bunch of friends he likes to hang out with and follows a football team, or maybe he is a basketball kind of bloke or maybe he doesn’t like sports at all but loves to watch Scrubs when he comes home from work. He might like to be touched and loved and handled with care and hugged, sometimes when he’s not expecting it. And he thinks death is not a laughing matter and guns aren’t toys even though he does enjoy James Bond. The woman over there likes ice cream more than anything else but is afraid of what it does to her waistline, and she is reading all these women’s magazines that tell you about the best ways to impress men and the new ten-day-diet, and every day she vows to herself that she will stop and just enjoy life but she always comes back, looking for a way, looking for a clue that she could find everywhere but here. And the little boy who plays with the spotted cat and might just turn out to be a vet. And the old man who smiles and greets each day as a friend. And the lady who can probably admit when she makes a mistake. All these things have a meaning, and all these people have dreams and expectations. They have suffered defeats and they will suffer some more, but sometimes things work out and it will be all the better, all the more glorious when they do. Some of them will live and strife and reprocitate and get to be a hundred years old, and others will not even make it to the end of the day, and all of them laugh and cry and scream sometimes and sometimes they don’t. They all want some thing or another and they all grow older with every breath. And I sit there, just watching, simply looking until someone catches my eyes and holds them and I look away and leave before I might decipher what they see in me.