12/29/21:
I:
What does it mean to be passionate about something?
I’ve had hobbies before. Spending hours on end speed solving rubik’s cubes to chase a new personal best. Working long after school ended on policy debate files with friends preparing for tournaments. Maybe even my enjoying walks in the woods over summer or playing poker count as a passion.
What about the activities that truly invigorate one’s sense of self; things that go beyond granting simple moments of pleasure or self worth. A great chef not only derives passion from the good food they produce, but also the continual cycle of improvement they can make upon their crafting of new dishes. A passionate writer finds fulfillment not just in producing pieces for a reader to view, but also the sense of self they find from the process of writing.
But perhaps passion should only be defined by something you’d dedicate your life to, even sacrifice your life for. A passionate alpine climber free soloing a sheer granite cliff face risks death at every hand grip and turn they make, yet they practice hours on end everyday to prepare for more challenging climbs. A teacher who is passionate works tirelessly to perfect the practice of giving the perfect lecture, working long hours after school ends to help students, all while sacrificing money and personal time.
II:
During a warm Spring evening last year, I sat a couple branches up on the big oak tree in my front yard, quietly overlooking the silent street below. My mind was dancing over the questions above, almost trying to conceptualize a future image of myself. Was I really that passionate about computer science to the point where I should pursue it?
No, I was not. Would I die for computer programming like Marc Andre Leclerc would risk when free soloing a mountain, absolutely not. Did I even feel invigorated when coding? Not especially. At best I threw my hands in the air when I finally got a project working. At worst, I threw the rubber duck usually on my desk at my computer screen if a bug persisted in my code after hours of work attempting to fix it.
My head turned downwards towards my Mom’s room window, where I could barely make out a person working at her desk. Did I really want that life? A job where I sat eight hours a day and stared at a screen changing lines of funny words. Grumbling, my eyes surveyed the street again, now churning with a rush of cars. To where they were from and going, I had no clue, but to me they were still all the same. People driving the same route from work to home, having done the same work as the day before, living the same day as yesterday. Repeating. Unpassionate.
I closed my eyes and whispered to the air, promising I would not end up like them.
III:
What does it mean to be friends with someone?
Perhaps a friend is someone you wave at when passing by in the hallway or strike up a light conversation in a study lounge. This Saturday, you may even go out to get boba with them at Ten One or Moge’s and chat about classes on the way back across the Harvard Bridge.
Or maybe a friend is someone you’re willing to share secrets with while laughing away together in your dorm room till the sun rises. You tell them who you like while chatting deeply about life on a rooftop. Binging shows together until 4am is your specialty while eating the snacks you bought together at HMart earlier that afternoon. These friends you would probably hug when saying goodbye for the summer, and would hug again upon returning for the new school year.
And then there are the friends you would die for and they would likewise for you. There’s a mutual trust between you two that is unshakable; anything can be shared. You two experience everything together: from the simple pleasure of taking long walks along the Charles to being together during life altering moments. They are the one you text first when you fail your midterm or feel the need to vent. They will always be there; the thought of losing them deep down is your biggest fear.
I’d be lucky to forge even a single friendship with someone that strong in my lifetime.
IV:
A friend recently recounted a story he had with some past friends to me, it went something like this:
The Red Line was noisy as we rode from Kendall back to Alewife, but the silence among us was even louder in my conscience. The people I was with were supposed to be the gang gang, the homies, the true friends I’d met during high school. We’d thrown crumpled pieces of paper at each other during classes, chased each other around laughing in empty classrooms at debate tournaments, and climbed the town statue after prom.
Yet as Thanksgiving drew to a close, I sadly reminisced on the dinner we just had together where only generic questions such as “how was your day”, “how were classes” were thrown around and met with equally short unintriguing answers. No longer were jokes and playful teasing thrown around as they were at the lunch table in the top left corner of the cafeteria we always sat at. The tense silent air continued to envelop us as we walked back; only our common final destination kept us together as a group as college pried us apart.
I gently waved at them as I left Alewife station that night. I took one quick glimpse back as I walked towards my car: their eyes were all glued to their phones silently.
Thank you all for the good times, I whispered to myself as I turned back around.
V:
Can you see the lies I wrote? Did you see them throughout the semester? Probably not but they were put in ink. It is said pessimists see the glass half empty, but sometimes I don’t see the glass at all, believing the fundamental premises of some questions are ultimately futile. Why search for one’s true utopian idealistic passion when such searches inevitably lead to disappointment in the long run? What do you do about relationships with old friends you no longer connect with? Why bother deriving meaning in life when language and even systems such as math are fundamentally inconsistent?
The truth is I usually do not believe the arguments I outline in essays after I finish writing them. They come from a thought process that is hastey and often riddled with the intrinsic pessimistic attitudes I have towards life. I am conservative when making risky choices; I am prudent when making impactful decisions on my future. I write slowly and carefully, always using what I deem the perfect word choice before moving onto the next sentence. Every argument has to be perfected, every short anecdote described with appealing language concisely.
Yet, such standards are not attainable. I never expect myself to achieve anything coherent, a piece totally describing the state of my mind. Hands on a keyboard typing on a white Google Docs screen cannot capture the lived experience: the panic, the anxiety, the frustration I feel building in my chest physically on the verge of bursting. My writing is a contradiction, always an object perfected for a nebulous audience, but also imperfect and never published, an echo chamber of unengaging raw thoughts.
VI:
One final time. On the roof again (building 68 I think). Staring at Boston. Another cold gray night in the fifties, cold but warm enough to shed my winter coat which I am grateful for. The glittering skyline is such a dilemma; it attracts my attention presenting itself as the ideal image of beauty and calm, but the devil is in the details. Each lit window is the life of a person who has their own problems, doubts about their life path, issues with their relationships. I’ll never meet any of those people, but I still smile because I trust they will find a way, they will find solace in their lives somehow. I believe in them far more than I believe in me. The beauty of the skyline is not the glittering buildings and the calm ambiance of observing the city, but that all at once I can feel the collective struggle of a group of thousands of strangers in life and observe that they have succeeded. Because otherwise the skyline would not exist and I would not have the privilege to view it.
My life is passion. My life is friends. My life is something to cherish and believe in. Existence in of itself has to mean something right? I think; I am; I will be something whether I like it or not. I might as well make it count for now.
