“Insanity to me means being able to make choices that are not harmful to the next person or individual. (…) Insanity is having a dollar knowing that is worth a hundred times, and not being able to use that money to its fullest. Insanity is being a young wanna grow up too fast. Insanity would be knowing where the gold is and not going to get it, knowing where the diamonds are and not going to get them (…). Insanity would be knowing what love is and not passing it on to the next friend, family member, loved one. Insanity would be having a gift and saying “ohh it’s not worth anything”, and then you find out that the gift was worth something and you spend the rest of your life trying to get it back, and then you find out that the gift that was given to you is life, and once you’ve kinda give your life away, it’s not easy trying to get it back (…)”
This is how Humans of New Yorker – The Series begins his first episode. The famous facebook page that shows a little piece of a person’s life as encounters this journalist on a street is given to us through a deep interview where we get to know that person’s thoughts and mind.
As we listen every story that comes up, we get wiser, we see reality, we acknowledge that individual that we do not know, but now it’s important to us for some reason. He’s not invisible anymore. Some people feel the urge to do something, to help others, or just to get to know more of the other. There’s a connection of both worlds, we can identify ourselves in them, the person we are, the person we will or would be.
I do appreciate all the work this journalist did just by listening to other individual and let them be visible to the world. We all pass our lives looking at the same people everyday, the mailman, the bartender, that lady across the street, that man who’s waiting for the bus… and sometimes we don’t even know their names. It’s important to communicate, create relations, or just acknowledge they are there, and you see them.
As Fernando Pessoa says:
“Nostalgia! I even feel it for people and things that were nothing to me, because time’s fleeing is for me an anguish, and life’s mystery is a torture. Faces I habitually see on my habitual streets – if I stop seeing them I become sad. And they were nothing to me, except perhaps the symbol of all of life”