I’m sitting here at my computer, stressing about my GCSE’s, frustrated that my internet just refuses to co-operate with
me, and annoyed that my best friend can’t stop talking about her boyfriend. School was dreadful, seeing as we got a wheelbarrow full of homework. My mother is yelling at me to set the table, and my
father is sitting in front of his computer, concentrating fiercely on the screen, no doubt looking at his work which is of life threatening importance. My hair is frizzy from having the rain
beating down on it as I waited half an hour for my late bus to show up (my umbrella chose this particular moment in time to not open) , and I just can’t stop sneezing. The beginning symptoms of
frustration are starting to form. I get up, give no one in particular a stereotypically adolescent eyeroll, and stalk to my bedroom to sit on my windowsill. I lift the curtains, hiding away from
everyone else, as I look out of the glass.
The rain is heartbreaking.
I put the very tips of my fingers to my window, marvelling at its smoothness, watching the water create a myriad of shapes on the transparent glass pane. The gentle
tipper tapper of the raindrops seems to be the only thing that’s constant in this world. I see the flicker of a light in the house opposite me. I hear the laughter of a boy as he runs towards a
car. I tentatively open the window, smelling the dampness, so fresh and new, like an animal that has just come out at night. I can taste possibility in the air. So many things could happen tonight.
It’s all down to chance. I stick my bare arm out into the dark. The cold is startling. Each water drop on my skin seems to be so significant, so important. The grey stormy clouds above me smother
the faint remaining traces of the sun, swirling and angry like Zeus himself was brewing up a great tempest. The wind is howling, thrashing and swirling around, making the trees sway from side to
side, ominous and intimidating. The sight of the swaying evergreens make me shiver.
I sigh, wishing that I wasn’t so trapped inside my safe, warm house. It’s not fair that so much nature is creating and happening outside, while I am captured inside the
web of safety. I want to be a part of it. I want to feel as though I am part of something bigger than these four walls. But I don’t. I can’t. I will not.
Because of a heinous monster known as common sense. Responsibility. It’s like a dead weight that hangs on my shoulders, bringing me down till I’m almost underground.
Expectation. What I want to do seems inconsequential these days compared to what others have planned for me. What I don’t want to do seems to be the only thing that I have to do. I’m scared. Scared
of the future that’s waiting for me, scared of present that’s testing me, even more scared of the past that keeps coming back to punish me. I want to let it all go.
I have the strange urge to go outside and lie down in the damp grass. I want to yell and scream at the top of my voice, I want to do rolly pollies and fail miserably at
doing cartwheels. I want to climb a tree and look out over the world. I want to sit on a rooftop, howling to the moon and watch everyone seem like ants walking below me. I want to fall of a cliff
with nothing but an elastic cord sparing me from getting my life taken away. I want to walk down the centre of a motorway, cars veering away from me, horns honking, drivers waving fists and insults
ricocheting around me. I want to eat a kebab whilst sitting on the London eye, feeling indestructible as the city splays itself out in front of me. I want to not care.
I can’t help but wonder what life would be like if I was someone else. What if I was a movie star, my face plastered over countless teenagers bedrooms, makeup making me
seem like an unattainable goddess, wealthy, beautiful, and perfection incarnate.What if I was a policewoman, dealing with criminals and villains each day, knowing how to handle a gun, mind scarred
beyond repair by what I have seen. What if I was a dying child in a third world country, the mere mention of food an unimaginable luxury, the tatters of faded cotton considered my clothing, and
every day, watching someone I know die.
I’m not any of these people, for better or worse. I am me. A wholly unremarkable person, no different to the millions of others that roam the earth each day, eating,
breathing, sleeping. I am not a policewoman, or a movie star, or a dying child.
But someone else is.
Someone else always is.
Somewhere in the world, in another time zone, a baby girl has just been born. An accountant is running indescribably late for work. A teacher is scolding an
irresponsible child. A teenager is getting their heart broken by the one whom they thought they would love forever.
A prisoner in a lonely, cold, dark cell is thinking of his family back home. A father is telling his son a bed time story. A couple is putting rings on each others
fingers. Two best friends are watching a movie.
An overworked mother is clearing the dishes. A proud student is graduating from university. A nervous young girl is anticipating her first kiss. A football player is
scoring the winning goal. A wrinkled Asian woman is telling the tales of her wise ancestors.
A sunset in one place, a sunrise in another. A shooting star, which so many people will be making desperate wishes on. The moon illuminating the sky, thunderclouds
bringing a clap of lightning. The monstrous waves thrashing a boat about, the chilling wind scouring the land.
All this makes me very glad, as I draw my now dripping wet and freezing arm away from the window. I am sitting on my windowsill, wondering, and somewhere, a village boy
is listening to the merry chink of a goat’s bell as he walks it up a mountain. As I continue to stare out at the storm in front of me whilst closing my window, a taxi driver is moaning about the
gridlocked roads. As I slide down off the windowsill, to set the table for dinner and am about to finish an extraordinarily ordinary day, someone is eagerly anticipating tomorrow. They glow of the
I’m very glad that someone is out there. That although I may be in a bad situation, there will always be someone who is worse off than me. There will always be someone
who is everything I could dream for. Whenever it rains here, the sun is shining somewhere else. I feel as though I am me, and I am never going to be anyone else. It's a strange feeling onceyou
think about it. Almost breathtaking.
As I set the plates out, and fill the glasses up with water in my dining room, I realise that although I am a story, I am not the story. Everyone’s stories overlapping
and interlinking make up this world, this planet, this life. There are billions of stories, all with different beginnings, different lengths, and different outcomes. It’s a fact that seems obvious,
but that we always forget. I’m very glad I remembered. I’m very glad that I am me. I’m very glad that someone else is someone else.
I’m very glad about all of that.
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