I walk towards a busy intersection, judging seemingly ubiquitous conversations.
An exceedingly organised woman clutches a 2017 diary and divulges her plans for next year to a friend. An energised man assertively heads in the right direction, muttering, “left!” over and over again to his trailing companions.
High-rise buildings surround us on the corner of Swanston and La Trobe Street. Police survey us. Blasphemous graffiti mocks us. Tourists with neon coloured suitcases maneuver their cargo around the pedestrians, the wheels pressing the wet pavement and making a faint jeering sound. The sounds in the street guide a blind woman. She hears what I hear; the nervous beeping of the green man, telling pedestrians that our walking time is fleeting.
Students tape posters on poles for an upcoming protest and disagree on the angle. No one will actually read the fine print, but at least they care.
We have all become apathetic.
Everyone is too busy to hear the musician, to see the blind woman, to feel the brisk air enter our lungs. Blood runs through us all, but the complete use of our senses is not as important as it used to be.
A natural instinct to fully experience each one of our senses has been replaced by modern apathy.