Random people

Random people you see on the street. I notice them. I describe them. I document them. So, here they are, I hope it will be nice to meet them.


Within her emotions collided. Her fear clashed with her ambition, with her will to live, with her dreams and goals. Her depression crashed into her joy, into her hope. And now she is scared. What if her fear wins? “What will become of me then? My God, what will become of me then?” But nothing has been decided yet, the struggle is still going on. There seems to be no end to the insecurity of not knowing what she will feel next. Each moment can bring her either happiness or panic, fear or peace, hopelessness or joy. She feels each new moment brings the possibility of her falling apart permanently. Maybe that’s what she feels most of all, weakness. A lack of power, a lack of control, a lack of strength. You seem pretty damn strong to me, stranger.

(Source: random-people)


On good days everything just seems dull, hopeless and utterly useless. On bad days she sees not a single reason to stay alive for even a minute longer. But she does stay alive and if you were to ask her why, she would smile at you with sad eyes and mumble something along the lines of ‘Oh, you know, just because.’ She doesn’t like to answer questions about herself, and so the answers she gives are almost certainly all lies.

I only saw her briefly, she passed me on the street. Her eyes are as dead as living eyes can be. Few things seem sadder to me than people who have died over and over again in their mind, but somehow are still breathing and walking around like everything is more than fine. Like they are not on the verge of dying, but in the midst of living life. Sometimes I wonder how many people there are in this world who are too depressed to leave their bed and face the world. Then I wonder how many of those people ever fully recover. Will she recover? Will she come back from the dead? Is such a thing even possible?

Back in the day, when her depression had not yet hit her with its full force, she still laughed, she still saw beauty, she still enjoyed a good debate, she still managed to feel good at times for no other reason than the feeling of her heart beating, for no other reason than the fact that she was still so very much alive. Now that that’s all gone, does she miss it or is she too dead to miss life? I wish I could ask her, but I am too shy, and it isn’t polite to ask people about their deadness I presume. Do you still miss life, stranger?

(Source: random-people)

It is literature, sir.

While I am hidden away behind the bookshelves I can hear their conversation.
A man in his seventies, holding a bunch of books, is talking passionately about history. Then his mood changes.
“The youth today doesn’t care about history,” he says with a raised voice. “I wished they would care. I have a huge bookcase full of books about history. I am telling you, I know everything. They don’t care.”
The cashier of the bookstore laughs nervously. It doesn’t stop the man from carrying on.
“What do they care about? Sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll. That’s not what real life is about.”
At this point a young guy walks out from behind one of the bookshelves, ‘The Old Man and the Sea’ by Hemingway in his hand. While he is paying for it, the man walks up to him. “Let me see this. Now this isn’t about history, is it?”
“It is literature, sir,” the boy says timidly.
“Literature, who cares about that? That nonsense. It is not real life. History is. God, kids these days. And that Hemingway guy, I don’t like him. Didn’t he shoot himself or something? Suicide, nonsense, that not real life. Life is living, not dying.”
The boy doesn’t say anything, he just grabs his book and leaves the store as quickly as he can. I look at the book in my hand. Well, Steinbeck, here we go, I hope you’re ready to defend literature. Please be kind to Steinbeck, stranger, he’s my friend. Much like Napoleon and Julius Caesar are yours, I imagine.

(Source: random-people)


On the other side of the night, evenings don’t seem that bad to her anymore. But then evening comes around again, and no matter how optimistic she was in the morning, every time again evening sucks all the life out of her. Why is it that in the evening everything seems so much worse than during the day? What is it about evenings that reminds her of death? Every evening again she realizes fully that now she is alive, something she never wanted to be in the first place, she will have to die. There is no other end to life than death. Of course, you might say, but how often do you really feel it to be true? How often do you truly feel the inevitability of death? When she thinks of her own death, she always thinks of a cold, heartless room, loneliness and a soul full of regrets. She thinks of dread, of fear, of pain. And as much as she dislikes life now she still might have a long time to go, she is fairly certain she will wish to do it all over again once it will be clear her life is almost over. The idea of being dead doesn’t seem to frighten her, it is the dying part that scares her. So she spends her evenings dreading not only the rest of her life, but also the end of it. Thank God for mornings. Then death doesn’t seem to be looming around the corner and life seems less of a drag. Maybe you can make your life so awesome it is worth dying for, stranger.

(Source: random-people)


There are no reasons for him to feel as he does. Yet, of course, like all people tend to do, he feels as he does regardless. At times he tries to change his feelings, the way he perceives things, his outlook on the world, but each time around he automatically, gradually, goes back to thinking as he thought before, and thus feeling as he did before. It is almost as if he is addicted to feeling sad, miserable and depressed. The pain he feels stops him from living his life the way he would like to live it. Most of his energy seems to go to muffling the screams he feels boiling up his chest multiple times an hour. His feelings only seem to grow murkier as time goes by. His soul seems easily hurt by even the smallest of altercations and the most common of situations. It seems as if all the protection he has built up over the years to guard himself from the outside world has turned into mush by his own state of mind. Maybe you could give trying to change your state of mind another shot, stranger. I know you feel you will probably fail again, but this time just fail better.

(Source: random-people)