The Others and I

I had wanted to get some writing done that night. I didn't. A lot of staring, and napping, and munching? Yes. Writing? No. Since time did no wonders to my productivity, I decided to utilize the only remedy I know of.

I went for a walk.

As I stepped onto the pavement outside of our apartment complex, aimless and filled with an uncharacteristic void, I found myself a-swimming in a sea of strangers. It was loud; a busy, busy world full of nameless, faceless people, laughing, and cheering, and clinging to each other in needy throngs. I mingled through a mist of smoke, perfume and alcoholic breaths. Everywhere: the clatter of high-heel shoes, boisterous music, and intermittent speckles of neon flickering behind passing pedestrians.

This was not the clearing of thought I had in mind. I tried to look past the bustle, beyond the mass of muddling stimuli, where there would be room for silence, just enough so I could hear my thinking.

It was in this state of determination that I began to see the others. The unsolicited few among the many. Those who edged along the buzz, never partaking in the clusters. Those who had stories to tell, but no one to listen. Those who were looked through rather than looked at, like sheets of glass hidden in plain sight.

A young man crouched against a brick wall, hugging his knees. He had pulled his sweater over his head so no one could see his face. A tuft of blond hair stuck out from the shirt hole. I could see the sweater bulge and settle, bulge and settle with each breath. He was shivering;

A woman stood parked outside a smoky jazz bar, drenched in the light of neon. Twenty years ago she could have looked great in her short-cut skirt and tube top. Mascara-streaked and stiff, she had turned her face to the night, blinded to anything but her thoughts;

A young girl slumped in front of a movie theatre, her face downturned and lit up by a blueish glow emanating from her cell phone. She raised her head, sweeping over those that passed by. Her gaze was dull, eyelids sagging with despondence;

A bearded man played the guitar on a bench, his body swaying to an acoustic rhythm. He watched his own fingers as they fumbled for another chord. The final note rung, feeble as a handful of feathers, and his posture deflated when the music suffocated in the nocturnal din.

I forced myself to remain still: silently observing, ever tempted by a willingness to look away. Finally, I resumed my walk.

I returned to our apartment, no longer aimless.

I began to write.