Through each pair of eyes
Past the cascade of gleaning follicles
The carefully selected articles of clothing,
There is a brain
which thinks things.

Continually processing and updating
Whirring and buzzing
Observing and noticing

Bound to a bank of memories
Crafted by the happenings of life
Drizzled together in separate ways
Like chocolates with different fillings, flavours,
And decorations.

We fail to believe that we are not unique
For we cannot know the extent of our individuality
But such diversity
Is bound
To intersect-

A million conclusions of the same sight
Is made on a judgement
Preconceived or freshly made
Wading in the equally deep pool of human thought
That is a precious place of solitude.

I’d be a fool to say that I am one,
Of the 7.5 billion people who roam the Earth
I have to say
We are linked by our capability to breathe and feel
Seeking relationships
To synchronise
With someone who views through the similar lenses
Or with someone to change what we thought we had known.

I used to think sadness was just sadness
Until a friend said,
“Perhaps you’re just thinking too deeply, though.”
“At least, that’s how I recognise it to survive.”

I refuse to believe
People aren’t thinking
The same things
That I have been thinking
All my life,

How the way someone sings in public
is brave rather than strange,
Or the silent guilt of rejecting a beggar

How each person is a caricature stored in the mind
Like a character in a beloved novel.

How certain strangers have an energy about them
That draws you in
Yet that kind of social interaction
Would be weird
And misconstrued.

How someone’s sad face
Could just be their neutral expression
Or something stressful just happened
And they can’t talk to anyone
Alone in transit.

How the prejudices that shouldn’t exist
Still very much affect your thoughts and reactions
“Everyone’s a little bit racist”
And we can’t seem to help it.

I ponder and sonder
And overthink
And plan every situation that cannot be planned
Taking comfort knowing that I am, in fact
Another grain of sand.

Every moment is another unrealised scenario
We, all lotharios of fate
Want to bake our cake
And eat it too.

I give strangers names
Assign meaning to their guise
I put them in plays
That keep me up at night,
I lose track of myself
Of what is real and what is fiction
Restricted by conditions
I seem to be put in.

I suppose I can feel
what is ultimately true:

This is the way things are.
This is how you do you.
This is the matter-of-fact acceptance.
They’re all just triggers to let imagination ring…

I hope I think this way
Until the day I die.
As much as I feel quite discontent
At least I feel like
I’ve lived
A million lives.