I often wonder who I am to other people.
not to my family or friends
but to strangers on the street
who only see one side of me
to the taxi driver who takes me home on drunken nights out
when I slur my address and never get my change
to the local baker selling my favourite cake
seeing me happy and laughing with my friends
to the barista at my favourite coffee shop
who I try to smile at to cover my dark eye circles
to the woman I once held the door open for
and complimented her nail varnish
for these strangers are my backdrop.
it's egotistical to say perhaps or
maybe it's because my brain won't stop
never stop, can't quite
switch off
that I fabricate backstories
and personas about strangers who didn't even glance my way
maybe it's my romanticism of everyone having a story
having something to say, being something, anything at all.
I often wonder about people I met fleetingly
the connection we had, the story we created if only for a moment
like
the couple I met at a Coldplay concert who bought me wine for my birthday
and in return I gave them a polaroid of themselves
I wonder where it lives
in a purse, tucked behind recipes and loyalty cards or
displayed proudly on their fridge
I wonder if they look at it
and think of me
and Coldplay
and that night where we were flung together by the world
for 2 and half hours of connection
in the capital of this tiny island
because of one band.
strangers are always better in my imagination.
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