I also grow number. Numb to the things that once drove passions in me that caused me to cry / scream / sulk / write / or do anything that would make my feelings feel like they were doing something. Nowadays, I feel dejected from those emotions. Is it the culture? I’d hate to think that a lifetime of believing in my independence could amount to my turning out to be a mere product of my environment. Is it the media? I pride myself on being of sound mind, able to up the decibels of my thoughts over all other stimuli.

Today, bombs disrupted a marathon in Boston, leaving three dead. One of the dead was an 8-year-old boy. And as much as the news plucked at my heart strings, I regret to admit that a pluck was all I granted it. Was it the distance? Was it because I’ve seen this happen so many times before? Was it because they were people I don’t know? When I ponder that little boy in Boston, I can’t help but ponder the little boy wandering around inside my head, still full of his youthful passion, wondering aloud whether he’s lost his way.

It scares me to think that they both have.