I have a story to tell you. It’s just one story, separate and complete.
Imagine a city - any city, real or imagined, it doesn't matter. What matters is the people, the city's lifeblood. They are what make it alive. They live in it, love in it and move its parts around. Just stop and consider all of those people that call that city home.
Imagine what they do. Imagine who they are. Imagine what they think, and dream. Just imagine.
We probably meet them all at some point. Not properly, we never learn their names, we never know their lives, but we still see them. We pass them on the streets, stand behind them in queues, race them for taxis, and squeeze past them onto trains. We live our lives around these passing shadows.
They are the unnamed ones: the faceless millions. The people who we don’t know, but would miss if we didn’t see them everyday.
Imagine crossing a road with no cars on it. Walking into a shop when there’s no one inside. Standing in a queue when there’s nobody else queuing, or serving for that matter. Imagine walking into a pub with nobody there, or ordering a meal from a waiter who doesn’t exist.
These are our lives. Relying on those we will only touch briefly, those we have no real effect on, but whose lives we give definition to. These are the people who keep us sane.
But think beyond that. Every person we meet has their own life, complete with their own ideas, their own thoughts, their own hopes and dreams. Every person has their own loves, hates, successes and loses. Everyone has their own story to tell you.
Imagine that corporate businesswoman who catches the same tube as you, going home to feed her cats, and mourn a true love that was lost.
Imagine the fast food manager who served you your lunch indulging in his favourite pastime of auto-erotic-asphyxiation.
Imagine the business woman you passed in the street doing her accounts, and where the small error she finds leads her.
Imagine the teenager who lives next door slipping outside to meet his friends at the local pub.
Imagine the taxi driver who nearly ran you over wiping the dribble from his paralysed wives chin.
Imagine the young woman you accidentally bumped into on a crowded pavement sitting by a hospital bed, hoping that her best friend will awaken from a coma.
Imagine.
The struggling artist’s exploration of life as a homeless bum (enforced, not chosen).
The building constructor who fell thirteen stories and walked away.
The single mother who awoke to discover cot death had claimed another victim.
The single father who played with his kids.
The janitor who just watched TV all evening.
The young girl who spent it chatting to her best friend across the ocean.
The friends who sat and talked all evening.
The guy who cooked his girlfriend dinner.
The young couple who went clubbing.
The old couple who played scrabble.
The wife who went into labour and the homeless, hopeless, loveless girl who did too.
All too often we don’t think what the next person along did the night before. All too often, we’re too busy seeing the face, and don’t stop to ask them their story, because who would? Who has the time to know everyone's story? Who has the inclination? But we are also part of these stories, and maybe we have a right to know.
The soap actor who couldn’t get their lines right no matter how hard they tried (her boyfriend’s been having an affair with her not quite so best friend, so she’s got other things on her mind).
The student band that held its first gig (only their friends showed up, but everyone had a good time).
The sixteen year old who revised for exams (his parents are stressing more, he’s their first child).
The lawyers who worked late on a case (court is first thing in the morning and although they know their client is innocent, they just don’t have enough evidence to win).
The writer who wrote out a story for you to enjoy (he’s got writers block on the grand thriller, so he’s scribbling a trashy love story that he kind of wishes was true).
But it goes on beyond that. Think further. The actions of our life have ripples, and those ripples spread across other people’s lives. Those other lives have ripples as well, and the whole spreads out further. The soap actor’s coincides with her boyfriend, best friend and all the other actors. The student band mixes up the friends and the bar staff. The student involves the parents and their younger siblings. The writers includes the readers - you.
Don’t ask the story of those you meet, because their story is not a solo story. Their story is just a link into a thousand others, a weaving continuity of humanity.
Wouldn’t it be nice, just for once, to know it all?
I have a story to tell you. It’s just one story, separate and complete, but it's also a tapestry of stories woven together. So I will only tell you a handful. Nothing more, nothing less. A small symphony in souls.
Listen well.
© C Shiell 2000