"A profound unmitigated loneliness is the only truth of life"
- R.K. Narayan

God hath made all humans using the same mould. He bakes the clay models in the same pot, some bake less, and some more; but finally he breathes the same life into them. Pray, tell me, can they all be any different from each other?

After a long time I get a seat in the bus. I think it's a privilege, but very soon I realize its a vantage point to some disturbing sights. At a traffic junction, I see some boys kicking a mongrel around. They hoot and laugh as they harry the poor bitch all over the pavement. I notice they have the same enthusiasm on their faces as I had when I played soccer that Sunday. Their feet moved the same way too. I turn away, perplexed.
And as I look around, I notice a man has snuggled his way into the front half of the bus, where the ladies are. He makes small adjustments as he strains his neck to peep into the blouse of a seated lady. Finally he stops at an awkward stance - guess he got his view. I notice his eyes are brown, like mine, and his eyebrows meet on the bridge of his nose, just like mine do.
Just beside him is an old man, artfully brushing his elbows at the breasts of a middle aged lady helplessly pressed against him. She seems not to notice it. Probably she is preoccupied over how drunk her husband would come home that night. As the old elbow executes its subtle caress, giving an extra squeeze every time the bus jerked, I divert myself to notice how flaky and furfuraceous the elbow was. Oh God! doesn't that graceful breast deserve a cleaner elbow at least? I humor myself. My stop arrives and as I disembark I accidently feel my own elbow and realize its so dry and... flaky!
I enter my home and the news is playing on the TV. A wide faced, slightly bearded man is making impassioned statements. I notice his small eyes and the peppered beard. Hear that? This is the man who should be ruling us. He will show the minorities their place and bring our power back to us, claims my dad, with nostrils flaring with pride. I listen for a bit, and go into the bath to freshen up. I look into the mirror and notice my eyes are small too, and my beard, peppered.
I retire into my room and login to check my mail. A friend has sent me some pictures of a terror attack in a mall. I browse the page and see close-ups of masked men driving bullets into hapless civilians. I notice the terrorists are young folks, with hands that still carry some of its baby fat. Their fingers are stout, and no different from mine. And my fingers are nimble too, whenever I drive bullets into powerpoint slides and document lists. 
That night, as I lay in bed, all the scenes of the day wind back. And I see those parts that had caught my attention. The playful gait, sharp feet, brown eyes, flaky elbows, peppered beard, soft hands. They form a collage on the screen of my mind, and then they all come together. A collage that so much resembles me. Is that what I finally am? A collage of pieces gathered from dark corners of life? Is a collage just a sum total of all its parts, or can it be something drastically different?
Well, until I find out for sure, I guess I can't help but be scared.. of what I could turn out to be.