Crowd - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
In a crowd I believe myself to be moving of my own free will, one of many yet still my own person. To an observer I am no more than a part of a moving mass, one with predictable behaviour when viewed as a whole. We move like a shoal of fish, one point of departure, one destination. So perhaps I have indeed become one of the many, feeding off the impulses of those around me to inform my decisions. I wonder what it takes to think like an individual in the heart of a crowd, or even if walking one's own path is possible.
The crowd flowed down the wide avenue the same way the Thames always meets its banks. The mood of the people swirled in unseen currents beneath the dark surface of their faces. In a thousand strong men there wasn't a single smile or expression of doubt. The only sound was their feet on the aging tarmac and the howl of the wind rising above them. Every one of them must have been feeling the first bite of winter through their tired clothes and worn boots. Ahead could be heard the blades of helicopters taking to the air with their "masters" on board...
There is something magical about being one of a crowd, an easing to the loneliness within. We act the same, cheer at the same moment, feel the same emotions together. What I read on their faces is written on mine and in that echo of our humanity we are as close to being one as we will ever be. In that moment of unity there is a feeling of freedom I cannot feel in other parts of my life. So every game I take that shirt, wear that scarf and melt into growing puddle of fans.
The crowd moved like a a multi-headed beast that shared only one brain. Their thoughts were in lock-step as much as their feet. Hardly a person in the crowd had ever known a person who had been murdered, almost no-one had known someone to die at the hands of a terrorist and not a single person knew anyone who had died of the new and much feared disease that flooded the media. They all knew someone who had healthcare needs not being met, they all knew kids who weren't fed right and went to a bad school. They all stepped past homeless people on the way to the protest. So were they assembled to demand better food and education for the needy? Were they here to demand better public health? Not a chance. They had come in their thousands, scared witless to demand a war that would cost billions, lining the pockets of the purveyors of bombs, guns and other war paraphernalia. And after the money was spent would they be less scared? Didn't a new fear always emerge?
A speech boomed over the crowd, strident timbre of the voice, cacophony of applause and cheering, whooping, hollering, clapping, stamping of feet, palpable excitement buzzed through the charged air, infectious grins, strangers shaking hands, patting one another on the back, spontaneous outpouring of emotion.
The crowd had been so jubilant, singing the songs that belonged to the inebriated and joyful. They rubbed shoulders never minding that their toes were often trodden on or that they were in closer proximity to these strangers than they usually were to friends or even family. The atmosphere was one of elation, the warm summer air occasionally punctuated by whoops and hollers. Then from nowhere came a throng of masked assailants with baseball bats and chains. They launched into the multicultural crowd of football fans singling out anyone with brown skin, male, female or child. Most fled, the chaos was immediate and the happy atmosphere transformed to terror. They ran helter-skelter down back alleys and through the shopping malls only to find the exits blocked. These hooligans must have been bussed in. Some stayed to fight them and defend the fallen, but not enough to stop the bloodshed. Then the police charged in on horseback and their gas could not discriminate victim from perpetrator
The seething mass of humanity dressed in smart-casuals jostled, shouting, baying for the war planes to rain bombs on their enemy. They knew their enemy by sight, but not by smell or touch, or through personal conversation. They'd seen them only as pixels on a screen in a far away land doing barbarous acts of cruelty that debased them to something so heinous as to have left the human race. The vermin needed to go. Young people flocked to sign up for the army, too many to take. Nothing would pacify them other than the immediate launch of an all out military strike. When their weary ruler stepped onto the balcony in the early hours of the morning against a backdrop of flag, lit by spotlight the crowd went wild. This portly man in his silk shirt was almost as good as a pop-star. With feigned regrets he announced the start of "Operation Noble Light." Hundreds of thousands of voices erupted in jubilation and with that the fate of millions of children and their parents was sealed.
Medieval raggedy shamble of peasants, dirty smudged faces, unholy stench of body odour and pig manure, armed with rotten fruit, baying to let loose at the poor soul in the stocks, jeering, eager, jittery, barely contained lynching mob, gleeful, fun, entertainment.