On the way to the hospital the other day, while my mother drove our little red box car around the city, as we drove past the green wheelie bins with orange graffiti on the sides, or the old fashioned yellow and green trams, I sat silently, and watched all the different people go by, out of my little smudged window. I sat there, and as all the people walked past, I wondered, what was their story?
The pretty girl in the polka dot dress, riding on her push bike. What was her story?
The boy with the big head phones hanging around his neck, and the gold coloured glasses framing his eyes. What was his story?
The lady in the chemist with the grey feather duster. What was her story?
The little boy at the hospital, with his arm in plaster, carrying the buzz light year balloon. What was his story?
The work man, carrying the big ladder across the road. What was his story?
The petite blonde girl, with the sunglasses too big for her dainty little face. What was her story?
The old lady, that walked down the street with a slight, unsteady wobble. What was her story?
I sat there, and I wondered. What had they been through? What was there life like? Did they have a nice 3 bedroom house on a nice cosy street, or did they live on the street? What had they seen in their journeys? What were their friends like? Their family?
Maybe I think too much. Or maybe everyone around me just doesn’t think enough. Everyone is always so wrapped up in their own lives, that they never stop to see what anyone else is doing. Maybe if we just stopped and took five minutes out of our day, to ask someone how they were doing, we could stop that little blonde girl from going home to her abusive boyfriend, or the lady from the chemist from going home and commiting suicide.
Maybe, if we just looked out of our window more often.