There’s a strange occurrence that happens when you go to a lot of graduations. You begin to think about the time when you graduated and how the years have added up since then. Time is a fickle thing like that, always adding and never subtracting. When you’re young, the road ahead looks wide and vast, and never-ending. Then one day you realize how quickly the time is moving. That day is called reality and it’s sobering and a little painful.
If you follow me on Twitter, you’ll notice most of my tweets revolve around three distinct things: Quotes from people I like, retweets of semi-appropriate Zach Braff comments, and basketball. That’s pretty much it. And the truth is, in my heart of hearts, I am a baller. Like, for reals though.
I recently finished Jack Kerouac’s novel On the Road. It’s one of those books I’ve heard people talk about quite a bit, usually with this cult-classic fascination that says, “If you don’t read this book, you are missing out on life itself.” People get like that with certain books and sometimes it’s unfounded, but the truth is, I did enjoy this one. Interestingly, though, my enjoyment wasn’t so much for the story itself or even the characters, but for Kerouac’s writing style. I guess you can like a book for a number of different reasons and that was mine.
Monday was a difficult day to get through. Once I heard the news about the bombing at the Boston Marathon, everything else seemed trivial and unimportant. I remember turning off my computer and sitting at my desk and thinking and praying and just feeling sad. When the world shocks us like that, it’s difficult to keep going.