The hardest part about writing has to be starting. There’s just so many expectations that come with a blank page, so about halfway through one I’ll just throw it away when it doesn’t live up to them. My theory is that if I just promise myself I’ll publish everything I write, eventually I’ll start writing again. 

It’s been awhile since I wrote one of these. I’ve had some thoughts.

Around a month ago I saw a kid drop a small part of their art project. It was almost funny, watching the dad try to keep his daughter from running after the scrap of paper that was blowing away in the wind. Kids are like cats, if they get desperate enough they practically turn into a liquid. 

It was a small yellow sliver of paper, and it blew right to me. When I picked it up and gave it back to her, I realized that the girl had tears in her eyes. I looked at the artwork, and I’ll be honest, it wasn’t anything special for her age. Incomprehensible scribble and crayon work. But she had almost cried over it. And now, as I was handing it back to her, her teary eyes stared right into me.

Why did that stay with me for so long? I’ve been trying to write a piece on it for so long, but I gave up. I just need to talk about it. How could she care so much about something she would forget about in a week? Is the reason she can attach so much meaning to something that matters so little, that she can cry so easily, that she can love so much, because she’s a kid?

I think it was a week ago that Antonio Brown visited our school. I’d been sitting in the cafeteria, eating a sandwich. A few pieces of lettuce, 2 slices of white bread, some turkey, and some mayo. And then the ocean of people swept in. 

There he was. A guy I didn’t know, surrounded by dozens of phones, and hundreds of people straining their necks to get a glimpse of his face. He was wearing sunglasses and a beanie that stretched until it covered almost half his face, so my first thought was how anyone knew that was him in the first place. Let alone get so excited that he was here.

Two of my friends got super excited and practically dove into the crowd. By the time I asked where they’d gone, the ocean had swallowed them up. Oh, they’re dead. I’d heard enough stories about how a crowd of people could trample people to death. 

They were alive.

After a few minutes they were back, barefoot, carrying their shoes in their hands like treasures. There on the side of the shoe was a hastily scribbled signature, one on each shoe. They must really like this guy.

The crowd of people slowly filtered into the hallway when Antonio Brown left, and I was left back with my sandwich. 

“So who the heck was that?” asked my barefoot friend.

How many of these passionate people were just faking it? How many cared that Antonio Brown was there, and more just cared that other people did, or that they could participate in an event? Was there a distinction between this type of excitement and the excitement for a long time fan? How could my friends care so much for a person they didn’t know existed just a few weeks before?

And I have to thank Roshan, my friend who sat next to me and continued to eat his grapes while the swarm of people swept about him. His completely unfazed expression was quite grounding. This must happen to him a lot. 

I’ll pull an English teacher here and bring up Hamlet. Because I sure understood him for a moment sitting there, almost wishing that I could be as passionate about something as these people could– for a piece of paper, for a person who they’d forget about in a week. 

It’s not like I don’t have my own passions though. Only after the cafeteria returned to its normal controlled level of chaos did I remember that. 

I’m afraid of losing those passions. Can you lose a passion? And is it harder to pick them up as you get older? A child can just be handed one by a complete stranger, so why can’t I? 

Maybe it’s a matter of practice. Seeing as I haven’t lost mine yet, I’ll leave it here for today.