The Streets are Full of Strangers

The Streets are Full of Strangers

I stand in the middle of the road, a bedraggled and drenched figure.  I am wet, I am cold and the driving rain forces my head down as my head full of wet hair falls around my face like dripping rats’ tails.  A stray tail sticking to my cheek and ending abruptly at the sad curve of my mouth.

I am bereft of emotion, I have done all of my crying.  The remnants of the heaviness of my burden caught in the wet, soaking weight of my coat.

I stand among a street full of strangers, lonely and alone as everyone walks around me, past me, deliberately avoiding me like trains on a track – not destined to stop at my station.  Everyone has an urgent need to be somewhere and my simple need for human compassion does not factor in the daily, busy schedules as dictated by the rat race.

I peer through my wet hair and catch the eye of an older lady walking towards me.  She quickly corrects her course, as though something has bumped her, averts her eyes and drifts quickly past.  Hastening her step lest I try and make eye-contact again or, God forbid, try and talk to her.

So I stand there, alone, on a street full of strangers.