n. the realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own—populated with their own ambitions, friends, routines, worries and inherited craziness—an epic story that continues invisibly around you like an anthill sprawling deep underground, with elaborate passageways to thousands of other lives that you’ll never know existed, in which you might appear only once, as an extra sipping coffee in the background, as a blur of traffic passing on the highway, as a lighted window at dusk.
Earlier this evening, I found myself deep in thought.
About how we never lent a smile to those who’d never hurt us, and mustered one for the ones who had. How we ignored the needy, and centered our attention around those who weren’t. Or the fact that we spend our whole lives selfishly keeping quiet for those who strain to hear our voices.
And I wondered, why?
Because we are born selfish, cold, unnerving, deceivers, and distempered. And it’s a bitter part of us that isn’t as surprising as we first thought. It’s not a pithy emotion, full of poignant lackluster cries or daft thinkers.
We are simply selfish, distortional humans bound by lies we accept.
But it’s not something we ever desire, lying in a pyre of figurative ashes.
It’s ever present, innate and intuitive. Tragically quick to respond impertinently.
I try to stop it, try to love those who need it most, but I find it I love myself more. care for what I need, not they.
It feels almost impossible.
But it’s not. We have help.
I’ll find it, I’m seeking it.
It’s not boisterous, nor is it entirely quiet.
It’s not bigoted, nor ruthless.
But it’s what we need.
I sometimes find that there are others, who have suffered a greater amount.
But indivdually we are helpless, and together we are not.