You see them everywhere, every place you go. You look into their faces. Every day. Different eyes, different smiles, different clothes and hair. You watch them. Sometimes you wonder about them. You look down the street and see them hurry past you, one face after another, each intent on going their way.

You can’t help wondering, can’t help thinking. Wonder where they’re going. Sometimes, you get close to them. You even talk to them. Mostly out of obligation, a simple yes or no, a quick thank you. But you hear their voice. You look into their eyes. It’s there. It always is. Some hidden hurt and nightmare, some deep-rooted love, some passion that you don’t understand . . .

You pause, even as the stranger goes on. Can’t help wondering, though. Who do they love? The old man that sits in a booth by himself, staring off into the distance. Who is he thinking of? Why does he sit alone? Wonder where he’s been, what he’s done. Wonder if he ever goes to church, or if he ever trusted Jesus as his Savior. Wonder if he has grandchildren. Wonder where they are, what kind of pride they’ve brought him. Wonder what things make him happy. Wonder what kind of difference the old man made on the world. And when he dies, who will miss him? Who will cry at his funeral and sob over his departed soul?

The old man at the booth gets up and walks away. You never see him again. But there is always someone else. Even when you glance at the road, you see a thousand cars drive by and again, you can’t stop wondering. Are they travelling home? No, maybe not. Maybe some of them are gripping the wheel, sweating. Maybe they’re blinking back tears, because they’re running away from what they should have fought for. Where are they from? How far will the road take them? Maybe not far at all. Maybe some of them are living their last day. Maybe a wreck will happen and destroy their world, tossing them into eternity, ready or not.

But the cars go by so quickly, you never know. You never see them again, and even if you did, you wouldn’t know, wouldn’t care.

Because they’re just people.

So many people.

Everywhere, in every day, each with their own lives. Some of them are living nightmares, merely breathing, merely existing, because the pain is so great. Some of them are falling in love. Some of them are dreaming big, reaching goals. Others are just in a pattern, a schedule, and they busily live each day the same as the next.

They have stories. Secrets. So many things that are hidden and can never be known.

I have no choice but to wonder. I can’t help it. It’s my job, you see. People are my interest.

After all, I’m a writer.

Get the word around!