How many people do you think live under these rooftops? Hundreds? Possibly thousands? More than 10,000 maybe?
I could look at this photo for ages, studying the buildings and trying to work out the city, country and continent I’m looking at.
It got me thinking about how many people live side by side, above and below each other, and what each of those people thinks about the lives they’re living.
How many residents of each building belive that they’re interesting?
Which building houses those who consider themselves to be doing important work in the world?
How many are nursing heartache? How many are struggling financially?
Are there more introverts in particular sections of the city?
Where is the nearest green space?
Who harbours a secret desire to move to another city or town? Who has a plan in motion to make that change?
So. May. Questions.
SO. Many. Stories.
Each life I imagine, each home, from the top floor apartments to the basements, from the outskirts of this city to the best and worst areas, each of those people has a story. Each has been through common joys and sorrows, and each has faced completely unique situations.
Just like you.
Just like me.
Everyone has a story.
Some are keen to tell their stories, some long for just one person to ask them about their day.
Too many think they’re nobody special.
As a blogger, you’d think that I would have the “I have interesting stories to share” thing nailed, wouldn’t you?
Well…. I have a confession; I fallen into the habit of thinking only about my doing rather than my being/thinking/believing as far as blogging goes.
The doing is pretty repetitive – I go to work, I watch Netflix, I avoid the vacuuming for epic stretches of time, I cook things, I sleep, I buy groceries, repeat.
That’s not super inspiring stuff, so I made the mistake of thinking I have nothing to blog about.
The thing is, while I’m working, cooking, watching Netflix, buying groceries and living my life, I’m thinking about big stuff.
I wonder why women haven’t become so bloody sick of misogyny that we are rioting in the streets.
I ponder how living in a society that centres whiteness has blinded me to my privilege.
I grapple with caring deeply about things I know are unjust.
Lately, I’ve added thinking about secure housing as I age, what I want my funeral to be like and wanting to spend more time creating to my ruminations.
Everyone has a story to tell, even me.
Hopefully I can find my way back to my stories.
What’s your story?