People have always existed on the fringe of my consciousnesses – they seem to flicker with the light as I look on in amusement, marveling at them the way I would marvel at deer in the forest, desperately trying to forge a connection that was entirely about me. Do you, mortal, accept me the way I accept forest animals? I promise I’ll be there for you, even though we’ve just been introduced, I would give my life so you can live yours, because absurdity is the only virtue that exists and we’re all just dancing around a fire. Am I interesting enough for this to be a meaningful connection? Do you have the numbers? What does the data say?

They waltz in and out, with their wishes and dreams and prayers whilst I remain hopelessly self-obsessed, trying to achieve my own goals, wondering about dinner and the future thereafter. I rarely think about people, but I’m obsessed with them. My entire life revolves around an extensive melodramatic circus of words and clashes of intangible emotions high up in the space above my head, and my own insanity seems to be kept at bay by the sheer hopelessness of people themselves – they take up time. They make up entire lives for themselves and for me, filling it up with seemingly random points of actions and reactions, joy and sadness, so that I can trudge forward into oblivion.

People are important. Not because they are the components of life itself, or because life flows through them, but because they offer continuity and movement. Without people, I can ease into my solitude and feel the passage of time as a physical ringing in my ears. Thoughts cascade from one form to another and become entirely new beings unto themselves, with their own habits and follies, fighting to occupy center stage. The uneasiness of the mind seems to beg for a release that is frowned upon by its own higher self as it envelops the senses and starts questioning everything. There is a stillness in the air and I decide to wait, let it pass. And then I pick up the phone to call an old friend.

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