I Think I Just Got it.

The overwhelming urge was set before I even finished reading the prompt. Sitting in my office chair, rereading the question a few times in my head, I immediately opened up Google Docs. Pulling up a fresh document, the flashing insert point of the blank, pixelated page instantly started to chuckle. The more I stared at the blankness of the page, the more I saw my reflection in the nothingness. The same nothingness that manifested the absence of what seemed to be my own brain power. The ideas in my head seemed to be locked away, bolted down by the screws of hesitation and disorientation. Around a steel bolted door was fog, lots of it. I found myself searching through the mist, foraging for a key, down on my hands and knees like a toddler. reconnoitering all around the fog for the answer to arrive like an encounter with a fawn on a midnight street. Passion? What the hell do I know about passion?

Sure, I know what there is to like, hell I even can tell you what I’m good at; but a word like passionate holds more layers to itself besides what you can and can't enjoy. I love to eat apple pie, one might even say passionately, but how the hell am I supposed to distinguish such a great intimacy for the savory bonne bouche, from an activity that I can take pleasure in no matter what? Is it a hobby? A job you feel must be done? An idea planted inside from childhood that must come into fruition? These questions are too philosophical and far too mystifying for one to answer without at least a quart of Brandy… better start looking for the ice.

The insert point remained flashing. It was now an hour after I opened the Doc, the only productive thing taking place in that span of that time being half of a Boston Herald article I read on the toilet.

“Mattapan business owner sentenced to two consecutive life sentences after killing his wife and her lover with a crossbow, when he caught them together in bed. Jury declares crime of passion.”

Why don’t I just keep it simple. I enjoy writing, I can just summarize the whole thing up and that will be what I write about. In many ways writing is an actual passion for me, but how do I write about writing? I began to type the dust off my keys that had accumulated from my long stare into the pixelated void.

“Writing for me is like standing at the edge of a cliff and having the urge to jump. There’s no reason to want to, but some little voice in your head subconsciously is telling you to do it.”

No, no. That won’t do. Instead of giving me a victory in the contest they’ll give me a phone number for the suicide hotline and a service dog. This will be harder than I thought. How about:

“When I think of writing, I think of Mariah Carey. Even when I think it's getting old, I still find it appealing.”

Jesus. What am I trying out for the Cheese Ball Olympic team of comedy? See, I don’t even know what I’m trying to accomplish, who is this for? What does this say about myself? Do I even know myself? And these questions that the challenge is asking me to answer, “Why do people follow you?”, what am I? The mahatma?

Okay maybe we need to get a little more specific. What type of writing do I like? If I can figure that out, then maybe I’ll be able to grind something out at least half decent to submit, then at least I can say I tried something. Writing stories seems to be my strongest suit, specifically screenplays, being it’s really the only writing I know how to do. But how do I talk about writing stories in a way that doesn’t make the reader want to put his head in a microwave from their feeling of boredom? I guess I could just look at the other submissions. Everyone and their families seems to be uploading whatever they can find in their computer files, so it wouldn’t be hard for me to start searching and find some kid with the same hobbies as me, writing about the same thing I’m trying to do. But where’s the fun in that? Not only is it not fun, it wouldn’t be truthful for me.

Everyone has a story of how, oh, “My Grandma read green eggs and ham to me every night and I developed a love for poetry.”, or “I was able to write dialogue before I could speak.”, Or “a book fell on my head whilst I was walking to the supermarket that turned me into a Science-fiction writer!” I have no story. No reason to write that has motivated me all these years. Just me looking to create something that wouldn’t appear in life otherwise. When I was younger at around the age of eight, instead of writing stories like these people, I was writing my own comic books- which of course had some words... maybe three on each page, but words nonetheless! However that would be it, nothing Shakespearean and all very wet behind the ears.

The time was now 2:25. Before I began writing, or should I say before I became lost and questioned my entire life, my brother Nick told me he was going out to pick up some food from our local generic fast food chain. Great place, however once I did find a small fried chicken head in a box of nuggets, beak in and all. It wasn’t until my mother brought the scoundrel to my attention that I even noticed and reluctantly said something to the cashier. If not, I would have just put some sweet and sour sauce on that fucker and called it an exquisite lunch. Anyway, me being one of the very few humans on Earth with four stomachs, I told that sonofabitch Nick to get me a cheeseburger meal with a coke, giving him a fat stack of twelve dollars in crinkled up, warm and damp one dollar bills. This was an hour and a half ago, and I was starting to become worried. Not because my brother had been gone for so long, but because I was starting to think that Nick used my money to buy a bag of weed, leaving me now out twelve bucks. This would have completely been catastrophic since I would no longer be able to buy weed for myself.

The shame of my upcoming consumption began to set inside my empty mind. I had managed to make it through half the week without going to the gym once; which was now a hebdomadal “accident” that was now beginning to leave traces. Six pounds in two weeks from lack of movement, lack of motivation and a lack of a mettlesome disposition. Again I would indulge in another grease filled smorgasbord, and again I would feel the loathing from both my brain and my bowels. Maintaining physical health and wanting to look like a vacuum-sealed cheese grader had been planted in my head ever since I started lifting in order to get big for football. Now football is over, and I still haven’t gotten my way. Every time I get close to looking in the mirror and seeing a glorious, vascular meatsack and actually feeling good about myself, something brings me right back to the start, with more pounds to burn off and more time to spend in a gym full of egotistical sweats. Perhaps this is my passion? To be in a constant state of wanting more? A motivation that never rests until the unattainable appetite of my unknown goals is seen through my own two eyes? I’m not very sure, but what I am sure of is that I can bullshit my way through these questions if I write about it for the submission.

So fitness is the answer, my passion, allegedly, is to live through the judgement of other people on what they think of my physical appearance. Sounds wonderful; but I run into the same problem as before, how to start? And even if I knew how to start, how would I answer some of the key questions that this challenge would need me to answer? Why should people follow me? With a body like Garfield, I’ll look more like a pertinacious plus - sized model, reminiscent of an uncle at a cookout with an unbuttoned Acapulco shirt and a gut hanging far below his waist, than a fitness guru. If I myself don’t even like how I look, would others find it in themselves to give some pity sympathy likes on my Instagram just because I won a writing contest? In order to fulfill my passion of running on treadmills and eating Greek fucking yogurt for the rest of my life? But I like fitness and all that comes with it! I like working out, lifting weights specifically, it gives me discipline and clears the mind. However just because I like it doesn’t mean it has permission to be my passion, or is a good topic to write about.

The silence that followed my familiar failures left me hearing keys jangling in the front door. It was my brother returning home with the food, and just in time as I began eating some of the keys on my laptop. With a cheeky grin he came forward through the hallway with a lone cup in one hand and a small apple pie in the other.

“Jesus took you long enough. Where’s my food? I’m fucking starving!” I began to say when I saw him.

“Speaking like there’s times when you aren’t,” Nick said. “Here,” He continued as he threw the dripping cup at me and sat down on the sofa. Turning on the television, Nick seemed delighted to see a repeat of The Sopranos playing on HBO. Causing even more delight to Nick was his quick maneuvering of shutting down all distractions within a five mile radius. Looking down at the freezing cup he threw at me, I saw that instead of getting me something that I - perhaps - asked for, he decided to just go ahead and get me a vanilla soft serve.

“What the fuck is this?” I asked Nick with frustration. Nick remained glued to the television, not even batting an eye at my vanilla disappointment or I's direction. I asked him once more;

Yo!” I exclaimed and got Nick’s attention. “What is this shit?”

“What? It’s an ice cream what the fuck do you want me to do?” Nick retorted.

“I didn’t ask for this.” I assured him.

“Well then here,” Nick says as he tosses over a crumpled up shred of paper, “Bring it back, here's the receipt.” Before even finishing his sentence he continued his binging of the mob and his continuation of excluding any and all conversation around him, turning the volume of the show up to a soft 81.

In the span of two and a half hours all I had to show for my work was a blank sheet of printer paper and a ‘cookies n cream’. I had to really use some of my stored away and forgotten brain power now, no distractions could interrupt my thought process. However unfortunately right now I was listening to gabagool at max volume.

“Hey, can you take that shit someplace else? I’m trying to work.” I told Nick.

“Who’s trying to work?” He sarcastically asked.

“Me motherfucker, what about it?”

“Your ass is over their watching porn Nate, that doesn’t qualify as work.” He thankfully reminded me.

“Will you just please turn the goddamn television off? I can’t concentrate.”

Nick answered in a series of groans.

“Fine,” Nick said frustrated as he picked the remote control up and turned the television off. “There. You're welcome.”

“Thank you,” I said with no meaning to my words.

“Yeah, no worries man. I’ll just sit here and play with my balls while you stare at that screen and concentrate. Oh- Ah- silently of course; wouldn’t want to disturb you and your… concentration."

I turned my back once more hoping to finally be at peace. Alright, now it was back to the drawing board; fitness is too much of a subconscious must have then a passion. So what else could I possibl-

“So what is it over there that needs so much concentration?” Nick started once more.

Angered, I gave him a hairy stare into his foul soul, for which he only answered with an insolent grin.

“If you don’t mind me asking... professor.”

“It’s for a writing challenge, I’ve been working all day on it.” I told him as I turned back around in my office chair.

Nick proceeded to get up from the sofa and look at my laptop screen.

“Looks like you just now opened up the document,” He said with a laugh. “What’d you write it down on paper first?”

“Uh ye-yeah I wrote it down on paper first. Finished that a while ago... just need to type it up.” I said with a tremble in my unconvincing fabrication .

“See that’s the problem with you Nate- instead of doing something intriguing, honorable or might I even say sane, you sit here in your room; writing screenplays in the dark, doing writing competitions, shit nobody cares about! Ain’t no man ever gotten coochie by writing an essay! Tell you what: let me bring you out with me tonight, we’ll go to The Mohegan, get a bottle of Remy Martin, and we’ll paint the town Shitfaced! Whaddya’ say?”

“Listen man, maybe you don’t think it’s ethical but I have a lot of therapy time that says it is.”

“See like that - what the fuck does that even mean? Ain’t nobody wanna listen to that shit!”

“Hey man, I’m writing about my passion; if you wanna shit on me go ahead but I’m telling you right now, you're wasting your time.”

“Oh what the hell do you know about passion? What’d you write about, your lifelong goals of smoking pot and watching Nicktoons?"

“Aye’ listen, I know what I’m talking about, a lot more than you do as a matter of fact. So why don't you just go have a vanilla ice cream and a smile and shut the hell up!”

“Alright, alright. Jesus, I’m only breaking your balls. What exactly is it you wrote about?”

With a sigh I confessed. “Ugh… I don’t know, I haven’t been able to think about anything. I have no idea what my passion is. Been trying to come up with something since 1 o’clock.”

“So much for you knowing more than me about passion.” Nick said satirically.

“Hey man, this is fucking serious alright! I mean this isn’t just no English project man, it means something! Musa Okwonga is one of the judges for Christ’s sake!”

“Who the hell is Musa Okwonga?”

“I don’t know but his name- it’s rich! Sounds like it means something! He's gotta’ be important!”

“Hm... I guess, well hey- why don’t you just make something up?”

“Jesus Nick, what have you been huffing paint thinner again? What the hell are you talking about? I can’t just make up a passion to write in depth about.”

“Why not? it’s not like Musa knows who you are, they’re not gonna run a background check on you or ask you security questions about your hobbies.”

“It’s not as easy as it sounds, Nick.” I can’t just write about a passion I don’t have interest in.”

“Oh who gives a fuck about interest? You think Walt Disney was out there in the 50s making Princess movies about Nazis and prejudice? No! He made films about made up shit, influenced by stories that were made up of even more made up shit! and damn me to say, he did it passionately!”

“Walt Disney doesn’t help me, Nick. I need passion, not passionate anti-Semites.”

“Well Shit, write about... I don’t know?!- cooking?! Yeah! Like spices and shit! Write that as your passion!”

“Cooking? What do I have to say about cooking? Why should people listen to me talk about cooking?”

“Listen Nate,” Nick said coolly as he sat down on a stool next to me. “Whatever you write, either way, whether its about your passion of cooking, cleaning or even fucking rock climbing- nobody’s gonna want to read it. Having said that, if you write about a regular hobby, passionately, using big words and shit, that’s what’s going to win you the contest!”

“Uh, yeah... I guess you're right.” I said as the idea unfolded in my mind. It was so utterly foolish, however somehow Nick managed to persuade my mind into playing a trick on me.

“That’s the spirit! Alright now, get your jacket. We're going to The Mohegan!" Nick stated as he got up from his seat next to me and started to get his keys and wallet.

“Nah. listen Nick, this is due in a couple of days and I really have to get it finished.”

“Ugh alright, fine, whatever man. But you owe me a trip soon! And when we go, I’ve got some ideas up my sleeve on how to get upstairs where the real money is made. And the women, oh dear lord, It's gonna blow your adolescent freaking dome piece. That's a promise.” Nick reported to me as he put his arms through both sweatshirt sleeves and tipped his cap.

“Nick, I’m 5 years older than you.”

“Well good luck! See ya!” Nick said as he slammed the door.

I became alone with my thoughts once more.

Maybe Nick had a point. If I were to just make up the whole thing, if it all came from my imagination, maybe I could rely more on the creative portion of the challenge than the actual facts that were hidden in the paragraphs. Who would know? Like Nick said, the judges won’t be able to tell the difference if I just have an overall adequate submission. I eyed the clock, ticking slowly on the bare wall in front of me. The recurrent sound of the steady clicks let my mind rest, however after a few seconds it was awoken with vengeance as I turned anxious realizing that with every tick, I was one second more of a failure then before. If I could just get a sentence going, one sentence would snowball into something, hopefully something that I could qualify as adequate.

“Fuck it” I thought… call me Chef Boyardee.

“A polished pot, a shining pan, some Butter and olive oil, I craft with my own two hands.”

Oh Jesus, what have I gotten myself into?

“Seasonings galore, as I open up the large cabinet doors and grab a spatula. With a fire in my eyes I grabbed the meat tenderizer. I am prepared to beat some meat.”

That doesn’t seem right. Matter of fact, this whole thing is entirely disreputable and morally askew. I feel like the ginger guy in Ratatouille who’s body gets used by a talking rat in order to fulfill it’s passion. This isn’t mine. I’m taking someone else’s privilege of motivation and the right to dream. A couple of spices, spatula covered in grease, and a dirty apron won’t give me that privilege. This submission couldn’t be something I just made up as I went, this had to be a subconsciously known answer to a problem I had no understanding of. More time would be needed for this, more importantly what would be needed far more, was a nap. Falling flat on my face onto my bedspread, I knocked out immediately once my head met the comforter.

I awoke to the sound of a loud, progressively worsening hacking sound coming from below me. Opening my eyes I was smacked by the sunlight piercing into my small box of a bedroom. I was drenched in sweat. What day was it? The annoying cough like racket was keeping me from falling back into my damp, dream filled state. Looking down at my carpet I saw that my cat was the one making the horrible noise, as he slowly hucked up a gargantuan hair ball from the depths of his insides. Well, this was now a problem. I looked at the clock, who instead of taunting me, actually decided to give me some help by telling me the time of 5:04 in the morning. I managed to sleep through the night and into the morning, and now the sunrise would be ruined by perspiration and cat hair. I knew I had to clean the shit up from my carpet, however I remained slipping in and out of consciousness for about 10 minutes before I even thought about getting up.

When the deed was done and the ball of what seemed to be hair moving on its own was in the garbage, I eyed my laptop that remained on the desk near the sofa. I knew there was still nothing in the void of my submission, however I opened the laptop anyway. Possibly to confirm with myself of the failures that didn’t just appear in my wet dream. Sitting at the table, thinking about every minute I was losing with each breath, wasn’t helping my chances of getting the work done. I needed inspiration of some sort, and decided that going into the city would be the best idea. If I go where it’s happening, maybe the stories of others would stick with me enough to find out how myself played a part in all of it. Why I was different from them, or perhaps more truthfully, why I was exactly the same. Luckily for me the commuter rail started at six A.M. I tried to write on the train, but couldn’t manage to get anything done on account of the loud toddler that was screaming for their mother in the seat next to me. When I got off the train at the gloomy, wet, and underground Back Bay station, I noticed a homeless man in a navy blue wife beater tank top digging in the trash can on the platform. I then watched as the wifebeater man took a half eaten cinnamon bun out of the trash can, and then proceeded to handstand his way away, up the stairs in all as he gripped the cinnamon bun with his clenching, yellow chipped smile. I wondered if he was once filled with passion. Maybe once aspiring to be something, but couldn’t make it work. Maybe he was gonna be in the circus, with elephants and tight ropes and that type of shit. I don’t know for sure, but at least he can enjoy his cinnamon bun after a long life of defeat.

I exited the tunnel and was stricken like always by the beauty of Boston. The skyline, the gorgeous scenery, the landmarks, and all the Irish whisky drinking racists for the entire population to enjoy. What a city. I went to the Boston Common and attempted to write once more, but just like before failed when coincidentally the same toddler was crying for his mother during a picnic. Jesus, doesn’t this kid get headaches? Read the room you little shit, people have things to get done, and your mother is sitting right in front of you. I feel as if these people may be stalking me, and are associates of the “Writer's Block Encouragement Service”. However, their attention must mean I’m somewhat close to achievement.

With a few hours of aimless migration around the city and absolutely no work done, I felt very strongly that this submission would not get done in time, and who cares? Who was going to read it anyway? All the stress and anxiety down the toilet and never to be seen again, maybe that would have been what was best. Being still early in the morning, I stopped in bewilderment as I noticed a movie theater had opened its doors. Through the long and dreadful pros and cons list I created in my head, I decided to spend my last $20 on a movie ticket instead of something intelligent like food or water. But who knows, the decision might bring me some long awaited good.

Buying my ticket and hurrying into the theater, I sat down surrounded by darkness and several people sitting scattered around in reclined seats. The film was one I had seen many times, a 1984 movie called Amadeus, detailing the life, the genius, and the passions of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. The movie was ingenious showing the composer's life through the eyes of a secret enemy, Antonio Salieri. Two characters with the same intense craving of making beautiful music, with one character, Mozart, the desire and accomplishments coming easy to, being a child prodigy. The other, Salieri, having to work a lot harder to develop skills to make the music his ears so longed for. In the end, the pure talent outworked the hopeful grind, and Mozart became one of the most famous musicians to ever live while Salieri became more of a forgotten name for those who aren’t familiar with the history of classical music. I am still in awe of the film; the beautiful cinematography, the colossal acting, decorative costume design and exceedingly delightful score featuring Mozart's real pieces. These factors build the world that the film takes place in so exceptionally that you feel you are watching history unfold right in front of your eyes. The film posed a question to me: does pure talent that comes to some outwork the true grind and hard work that comes with an alluring passion? How does destiny play a role in this? Mozart was most likely destined to become the great composer he is known for being now, but what about Salieri, why was he left in the dust as a side character in someone else's legend? If Mozart was destined to be this musical legend that we all know now, was Salieri’s destiny only to become envious and villainous of Mozart? What made Mozart so important that his destiny outweighed the grind of the ordinary person? Well, Mozart might have became so influential and prominent at a young age, but destiny is not blind. Though he was given this great talent, he still worked an unconscious amount of hours, like many of the characters say about him during the film. He wasn’t just some juvenile delinquent with a Midas Touch, he outworked all of his competition, including Salieri. Although Salieri worked, he let his covetous obsession of Mozart’s success and his own failures cloud his mind, limiting himself from figuring out his own destiny. That is why destiny chose Mozart, he was given a box packaged with wrapping paper and a little bow, and Mozart turned it into a gift in new and innovative ways. And at that moment I realized, that was the answer, that is what passion is about.

Passion isn’t about what you like or don’t like, it’s about the understanding between you and the universe, the realization of what you can do to create your own destiny. The epiphany of what you're supposed to be on this earth to do... what you must do. You feel it in your bones, you feel you must work and work without knowing why; but the reason means more than just forging your name into a rock to prove to the world you were here, that you existed. It's about forging your own destiny, and the universe repaying you for it. Then I realized that this right here, this was my passion. The film, all films as a matter of fact. Filmmaking has been a key source of emotion and aspiration for so long, however I thought of it more as a pastime than a destiny. I realized at that point that filmmaking would not only be a way of discovering myself, but letting others discover what passion means to them, and pose questions in the audience's head that lead to their own epiphany. That would be my job that I must do. A job I love straight to my core, that I wouldn’t get tired of because every time I tried the universe would set me back on track. And if the universe decided to fuck with me to test my ambition, I would bounce back stronger and more influenced, telling the universe, “Yeah, you chose right motherfucker, try that shit again, I dare you.” This would be why people follow me, in order to gain self discovery through a piece of art, something that can move the people into an open minded discussion with themselves. Given a Memberful account, I could use this platform to get my ideas off the ground faster and into peoples heads quicker. I could use it to open up their minds and for them to discover their own passion through my work, for all to see. I wouldn’t use it to get random stranger’s money who don’t know me and show a slight interest, I would use it to connect with these people on a subconscious level. I would open up my mind for them to poke around in, and hope maybe they would be inspired to let others do the same to them. After the movie, I exited the theater calmly, throwing away my peanut M&Ms into the massively overflowing Boston trash can, and walked back to the train station. Although it was down pouring rain, my mind was kept locked on the same thing, the realization I had made. I took my seat on the train when I got a text from my brother.

“Hey, did you think of anything to write that contest shit about?”

I paused and then answered.

“I think I just got it.”