untitled

It’s quite a lonely thought: No matter how long I live and regardless of how well anyone knows me, I will never fully nor completely be understood. Because I am the only one who shares intimacy with my own thoughts, no one can ever know exactly what it is like to be me. The reality is that amongst this crowd of six billion I am in complete isolation.

When I walk down the busy city streets people do not care who I am or where I’m from. They do not care where I’m going, what I’m doing, what my intent is. They see me only as the girl who walks down Queen Street today, clutching the strap on her brown leather bag, weaving her way between the people. Despite the many people I encounter these instantaneous meetings will be quickly forgotten by almost everyone I pass. Does anyone ever remember?

What would it take for me to become someone? Not just anyone walking down the street, but someone. What would it take for people to notice me? Be shocked by me? Envy me? Be drawn to me? How big do I have to act for people to step aside as they approach? I know I am lacking an element which would make me superior to them if I possessed it.

As I’m walking down the street, pushing against the crowd, my bag catches suddenly on someone’s hand. Someone’s. He has jet black hair and is talking on his phone. This is all I see of him before the current sweeps him past me without an apology or acknowledgement of our contact.

I continue to walk. My legs subconsciously carry me forward the way they’re trained to and my mind whirs. Who is he? Royalty. What does he do? Smokes. Graduate. Fucks. Where is he going? Secret. Did he even see me? Through the back of his head and the crook of his arm.. He is too engrossed in his conversation. His mobile is the most important thing in his life during this instant. He is completely alone, as am I, despite his attempt to connect with the person on the line. Will he remember me in ten seconds, minutes, eight days, four years? Or am I just another body who brushed past him. So physically close yet having absolutely no impact. Surely everyone we see, meet, talk to, observe – from the shopkeeper who sells children his treasure for $1.95 to the person we sit next to on the bus day after day – they must all hold some sort of significance in our lives? It seems like such a waste for people to just come and go when we could learn so much from them.

As I’m walking down the street, pushing against the crowd, my bag catches suddenly on someone’s hand. Someone’s. He has jet black hair and is talking on his phone. As my bag hits his fingers he jolts, startled, and I see the phone slip from his hand. Falling... Falling... It hits the concrete.

Before he’s digested what’s happened; before he can reply to his girlfriend’s demand as to why he’s late; before I can gush “I’m so sorry!”; it is smashed by the stampede of shoppers rushing to ATMs, job interviews, hair appointments, looking directly ahead and absorbed by their destinations. While these people glide past he stands stationary. How the loss of this tiny object, which before fitted so snugly into his hand, has affected him.

“I am so sorry!” I repeat, having no idea what else to say. “I just… my bag… sorry!” He doesn’t look at me. His eyes remain fixed on the silver shards and his head shakes a little.

“’S fine,” he says but not to me. His right hand brushes his hair forward and back. He looks up at me with his lips together, frowning. I actually have no idea what to do. I want to throw myself around. I am so overwhelmed by my stupidity.

“I have some money on me…” He shakes his head again looking totally lost amongst the busy street’s shoppers. They continue to slide past us on the outside of our now conjoined worlds. This guy, who was so at home with them moments ago, has now unintentionally slipped into the bubble which I live in. He has unwittingly become a part of my day, my life.

“I can’t,” he mouths monotonously, “I’m supposed to be meeting someone and I’m late. Sorry. Thanks.” He glances at me so briefly I wonder if I imagined it before pushing past me. He shakes off the diversion I am. Once again he merges with the people rushing up and down the street. As quickly as he found himself detached he has joined them again. I am left standing alone, a pile of rubbish at my feet and shards of plastic in my curiosity.

As he disappears into the crowd I feel a strange annoyance begin to irritate me. Initially I feel it as a light tapping which progresses to a prodding, then a sharp stick being stabbed into my forehead. Can I be so insignificant that he cannot even look at me? During our short conversation I was exactly what I was before our days collided: A random nobody. Again, I am filled with frustratingly unanswerable questions: What does it take to hold respect? Why shouldn’t I be someone? Why should I be just another person on the street?

I am so enraged by this thought - this refusal to be granted identity - that I shut my gaping mouth. I clench my lips together and whip myself around to keep walking up the street. I begin to notice that suddenly there is no one in my path. People notice me. They are shocked by the weight of my feet against the concrete. They envy my ability to be so unaffected by the burden of those who are in my way. They are drawn by curiosity as to why I am in this state. They step aside, driven by fear. The elements of superiority I now possess are impatience, hostility and negativity. I have become part of the robotic parade striding up and down this straight, narrow street.

And suddenly I feel larger. Everyone around me is small and insignificant. I am not bothered by them; In fact I hardly see them. The wall around me ensures they do not disrupt my focus. Although I cannot remember where I was going I keep walking. I keep walking to avoid vulnerability, to maintain my new-found authority. Although I now have what I desired, I am more isolated than even before. The reality is that amongst this crowd of six billion I am completely and utterly.

ALONE