I’m sitting next to someone I have never met before and will probably walk away from having never met. I’m listening to trusty old Michael Buble, Haven’t Met You Yet, busting out the occasional not-so-subtle head bop. I’m watching the ocean and the hundreds of people finding enjoyment by big, salty waves pushing them over. Smelling the ocean, listening to happiness. There is a world inside my head; thoughts, memories, overthinking, fantasies, imagination. I’m writing a novel, conjuring up a whole separate world from yours and mine. I slyly look across to this guy next to me. His eyes are glazed over as he too watches the ocean, wrapped up in his towel like a blanket.
We are as close in proximity as one would sit with a friend, a lover, yet we know not a single thing about each other. All I know of him is he has sandy blonde hair. All he knows of me is I don’t stop typing, unless I’m taking a moment to stare out into the abyss (or gush over the cute dog nearby).
He has a world inside of his head. He is lost in thought as much as I am; thinking of people I have never heard of, reliving experiences I couldn’t imagine.
Moments like these make you stop and think of the amount of humans in this world; the amount of people thinking, feeling, dealing with the same bullshit as you. There is a whole world outside of your head, a whole world inside of it, and a whole world in every person who walks by.
If you ever need a reality check, a moment that makes you and your problems the size of the ant crawling on my leg; sit in a busy area and just take it in. You matter. But you also really don’t. The world is a paradox and life is fucked and magic all at the same time.
I just looked over and he’s actually asleep.