A Hallway Drama

He couldn’t understand her, somehow, and he wondered if she understood herself. All he could see was worn-out shoes, socks, a face devoid of makeup, and an ambition.

But he couldn’t tell if she was pretty. Or if she was the kind of pretty that you read about in books; so natural that somehow a beauty shined through as the sun hit her eyes and he leaned in for a kiss, with the heavens singing and the stars aligning, and the grass billowing, and her beautiful mind humming…and the sentences running on and on and on.

He saw her try to protect herself from being made foolish. From being too loving. He saw her heart, tightening slowly at an unanswered text message, and the ice behind her eyes hardening as she saw friends together without her. But he never said a word. Not ever. He looked at her for a long time in the hallway, when she didn’t notice, because she was too busy talking. Or maybe she pretended not too notice. They both knew she would do that.

But he also saw bright smiles, so bright they made his heart flutter. He watched her hands as she doodled, so bored by menial tasks. He turned his head quickly when she looked over. He knew she thought he didn’t remember her. Didn’t care to talk to her. But he did. Oh yes he did.

 

But he would say something boring, and she might be confused, and then he would go home pretending not to care. And he would come back to class, pretending not to remember. And he would see her, slouched in her seat, feet up on the back of someone else’s chair, not bothered to take her notebook out yet, and he would pretend he didn’t see her.

Ghostwriting

Alot of times I find pieces in my “junk drawer.”

Well-written, emotionally charged documents

which embody everything that writing is supposed to be.

Everything that I love about it.

But I don’t remember writing them.

See,

When I have a lot of those...

you know…

feelings...

too many for me too handle,

and too many to bottle up,

I sit down and I write.

I bleed, just as Ernest Hemingway said writers should.

And once I’ve finished,

once the pages have leached the vile, curdled emotions from my heart

(for now)

I forget it even happened.

When I fall into that space,

of complete abandon,

of full-scale therapeutic word purging,

I am not myself.

Not the self who remembers the past or dwells in it.

I am my purest self.

So pure I cannot even remember that I wrote, let alone what I wrote.

And that is raw, pure, beauty.

That, my friends,

is writing.

A Passionate Passion

            I’m a passionate person who is passionate about sharing that passion with people that are equally passionate about learning my passion for passions.

            Have I said the word passion enough times yet?

            Well it’s still probably still less than the number of times I've heard it used in quotes, seminars, or ‘how to be successful in life’ lists.

            Passion is supposedly more important than almost anything else. Brush honesty and kindness away for a second, it seems that in order to do anything anywhere, one must pinpoint their passion.

            And hey! It’s true!

            Seems strange doesn't it? That even though I’m quite irritated with the word ‘passion,’ I am still able to admit that without it, life is dull. Maybe even pointless.

            See, passion is the thing you could do all your life. It is writing, dancing, playing football, studying chemistry, teaching, or folding origami. It could be anything; your passion is the thing that comes most naturally to you.

            Have you always been exceptional at the piano? No matter how hard it was, you always enjoyed it? Then your passion is probably piano. Maybe.

            It’s a complicated business this passion thing.

            They say that if you find your passion you will never work a day in your life. That your job will be like having a party and getting paid for it.

            Oh but I fear that this belief is a slippery slope to disappointment.  

            Here’s what I've come to conclude: sometimes your passion can feel like work.

            They don’t tell us teenagers that, because then we might give up.

            You don’t tell your two-year old that the cough medicine is 99% likely to taste like the inside of a Windex bottle, you let them figure it out on their own, because that is more likely to yield results.  

            Sometimes when I sit down to write, which I think is my passion, the words just don’t come. Every sentence sounds oh so stupid. And I get frustrated. Maybe next time I think about finishing the piece, I’ll get a little lazy. I’ll remember that I was struggling and might even put off coming back for a while.

            But it doesn't mean I’m not passionate about it.

            Just as the river of love never did run smooth, the road of passion probably has pot holes and toll booths. But doesn't mean you’re going to give up.

            It’s your passion because you can only take a break for so long. It’s your passion because when you come back, it feels natural again. And even if it doesn't, you keep coming back anyway.

            I went for a while thinking that finding my passion meant instant happiness and never working another day in my life (okay, I’m only not even an adult, and I've barely worked at all, but you know what I mean.)

            I've learnt that dedication, perseverance, and especially hard work are just as important as the mighty “passion.”

            They just aren't mentioned with the same admiration. Passion is always up on stage, all smiles and curtsy, a little over advertised. But dedication and hard work are the back stage hands that make the show go round, without them, passion is just a pretty face.