With the angelic voice of Lorde in my ears, here I lay at 23.42, covered in more than 3 blankets, asking myself a question no one ever asks: Why do we ignore strangers?
Is it because we’re totally satisfied with the people in our lives, we’ve given up hope that out there somewhere in the ignored people pile there isn’t a single soul that possibly likes the same painting as we do? Or is it simply because we grew up with the notion of “strangers being strangers” and people we don’t know being dangerous?
Don’t ask me, I don’t know. I didn’t even think of this question until earlier today when I was trying to walk on a crowded street without getting elbowed by a passive-agressive Londoner rushing somewhere.
They say the people in our dreams are actually figures we’ve seen in real life. If our minds can let “strangers” into our very own little world called the subconscious, full of dark thoughts and wishes, why can’t we even say hello?
How do we even define a stranger? I feel like a stranger isn’t only the old lady on the bus, it can also be the “acquaintance” that you gradually start ignoring. A “how are you” turns into “hi” and a “hi” turns into a silent smile.
Strangers are new moments, boxes waiting to be opened, undiscovered colours, new favourite movies and possible lobsters.
People are art. You are art.
Everyone happens to have unique brush strokes. Some are illustrations, some are abstract paintings. Yet every one of us has a place on that light blue gallery wall.
In a parallel universe, I am your stranger.
Don’t pass Frida’s, look at Van Gogh’s and never ignore a Monet.