Listen

I'm lost.
Well, not really.  I'm actually quite well and found.  But how do you speak in a crowd of a million voices?  You can't; it's too much like breathing underwater.
You'll drown.

Listen.  Open your mind, your ears, your eyes, and listen to everyone around you as they walk, talk, and flow.  They are as much drops in a river as you, and to understand, you must first listen.

There.

A whisper of fabric.  Birds humming low beneath their bellies.  A spot of lies.  A melancholy dichotomy, a family carelessly torn apart and the stitches forever frayed.  The gentle lilt of a waterfall as steam rises from the warm mass, the chicory abyss melting through the floor to drip through the ceiling of the room below. The waft of a butterfly's wings, kissing the surface of a child's cheek.  The storm cloud of fury, a tornado in a man's skin.  Four faces on a sleeve, promising punctuality and order.  The ragged, throaty growl jumping from underneath the surface of a thin metal sheet.  The subtle undertone of movement reverberating down the line of iron stilts.

The myriad symphony of a busy street.  The understated cacophony of a red-eye terminal.  Children screaming and playing, adults whispering and arguing, some looking bored and tired while others are obviously animated, excited about something yet to pass.

You can hear everything a little louder, see everything a little brighter.  You might notice things you'd never seen before, like the warm looks of a newlywed couple, or the excited shaking in the limbs of a youth on their way to the theatre.

It's exhilarating.  And, just for a moment, you forget exactly what it was you were looking for, because you've just seen everything there.