Anonymity is a powerful drug. To pass without a trace, to move through the world unhindered and unheralded, is a privilege too often taken for granted. I crave to be greeted with ambiguity. I seek solitude in the crowd, to be no-one amongst someones. I long to hear how Sheila’s day was and what Dave is having for tea, but I do so, only ever wanting to be “that weird lad with the book”. Like a platonic peep show, ideally I am involved but not included.

I slink back into my chair in this quiet seaside pub, my face hidden behind a book I’ve only a passing interest in reading. Instead, my ears are trained to the latest gossip about Roger and his brother, whom I have never met and almost certainly never will. I have no idea who Roger’s brother is, or indeed why he “has to be so much of a twat”, but I am comforted by it. The unknown questionable actions of this man, and his resulting condemnation by my fellow drinkers give me a dose of humanity that is in short supply. 

Opening social media, we are instantly bombarded by greek gods, barbie dolls and versions of our friends that we don’t recognise. We scroll past Apollo, hocking his latest powdered panacea, and past our friend masquerading a romanticised life of half truths, and we find ourselves famished for glimpses of humanity not yet distorted by the societal pressure or the algorithm. Even when we venture outside, the unrelenting homogenisation brought about by capitalism means that interactions with retail workers have been reduced to conversations with robots, programmed to answer in meaningless platitudes. We are a society deprived of genuine human interaction. So much of how we interact with others is now done through a filter. People are able to carefully curate idealised versions of themselves which act as buffers for any serious attempts at human connection. 

All of the above is why the joy of the unknown is so palpable. People are best observed from the perspective of the stranger. I sit in a pub that is foreign to me, relishing the morsels of humanity that have been offered via the condemnation of Roger’s brother. Whether or not the man is really “a twat” is irrelevant, he is tangible by virtue of having flaws, and the providers of this fairly uncouth moniker are all the more real for their unbridled honesty. Moments of humanity like this, no matter how fleeting or imperfect, are like drops of fresh water hitting my parched lips and I find myself greedily refilling my cupped hands from this oasis, before my inevitable journey back out into the desert. All of this because it only seems possible to ascertain my own humanity in relation to that of those around me, but I must do so without becoming a fragmented tapestry of traits borrowed from those closest to me. This is why I seek the company of the unknown, and it is why I never feel more like somebody than when I’m nobody.