By: Jess McComb
I stood there in the slight drizzle, slouched under my hood, eyes locked on the pebbled ground as I waited. A streetcar arrived with a quiet clatter, white noise to city dwellers and a peculiar nuance to its visitors. I stepped aboard the car, casually gripping the steel bars as if it were a habit. Greeted by a new environment, my eyes scanned the car, snagging on a flamboyant pair of sneakers and an aesthetically-coordinated outfit. Subconsciously, I peered down at my own attire. I wriggled in my uniform of individuality, the outrageous pattern of my carefully chosen shirt far less unique in this hyper-diverse environment. But it was not with myself that I was most concerned. A connoisseur of people watching, the city supplied me with an endless feed of entertainment. With each new passerby was a detail to note, a story to tell. The man slumped on the corner was crippled by his past, the grime coating his fingers a sentiment of his struggle. The boy with the cocky smile was deeply insecure, haunted by constant expectations. The girl standing on the corner was searching for a familiar face, subject to uncomfort in her solitude. I was among them, noticed but invisible, straining to be seen.