Jordan Colley

While walking the dog yesterday morning, I passed a man walking the other direction. He was wearing sunglasses and a beanie, talking gruffly into his earbuds. His shoulders were hunched and he looked ready for a fight.

He passed me by, but my attention lingered on his presence; initially, I formed a judgement: “Seems like an a-hole.” Then I felt superiority: “I'm glad I don't start my mornings like that, mad at the world.” I have no idea what was actually going on, and I'll probably never see him again. Yet, here we are a day later, and I'm still ruminating on it.

Do I see a little of myself in that man, a complete stranger? I have bristled and puffed myself up to protect myself. I've used body language to dissuade people from invading my space. When I walk in this protective mode, alone, I overlook the world falling silent. It has stopped speaking to me. I wonder: What else do the walls keep out?