OO6

Sometimes when I walk the streets I wonder about the people I pass. Everyone has their own story. But what are their stories? People don't show their story, and nobody knows every page of the book, just the person about who's life it is. And I start to wonder. How much do people know about each others stories. For all I know, that homeless man, sitting there begging for money, petting his dog and shivering of the cold, was once a successful and important businessman. And why don't we know each other's stories? Because we don't tell them, I know that. But still. Why? Why do we have so much secrets? Why are we too shy to let people read the book about our life? Why do we show them only certain pages, the beautiful ones. Maybe because people don't want pity. But whatever has happened in their lives, they still don't want to tell you everything. And while I walk down that street. I wonder about all the things those people might've done. Because although I don't know them, or have ever read a page of their books, I can see them now. They are alive, they are able to move, and they surely have done beautiful things.