I come across this issue all of the time while writing: there are more important things.
Like, for example, I’ll have written a 500 word post about this guy that I’m really, really in love with, and delete it all because it’s just so stupid–not love, and definitely not him, but stupid because there is bad shit going on in the world, in this life. How do we go through our days so blinded?
I was so happy when the Giants won tonight. I was at a bar with my friends and I was smiling big, like how you would after finally getting asked out on a date with That Guy. But you haven’t actually gone on the date yet. I was happy, feeling good, and smiling. Over a Giants game.
How do we do that? How do we convince ourselves that these trivial things are so important? Is it because we’re bored and live in America? Or is it because my life is just that luxurious? I don’t know. Am I so lucky that I have 500 words to write about Alex (my “That Guy”), but have to search for words when it comes to Lybia, Kim Jong-il, and crystal meth?
I hear a shout, turn my head left and see two men, grown men, looking down each other’s noses. Chests puffed. Fists clenched. Sweat starts to bead on the brow of the thicker one. Words are exchanged that I can’t make out, eyes squinted and demanding. One takes two fingers and presses them against the other guy’s left pec, the receiving guy looks down at it like he can’t believe it and then pushes the other guy on to the bar. The rest of the bar stands up, what side to choose. Choose depending on who you know, what team you’d like to win.
Fights over baseball games.
Are we not embarrassed? Do we not stop and think, wait, there are worse things, as we complain about our bottomless mimosa not being refilled in the instant we take the last sip?
It’s all in our head. We have nothing to worry about, really, nothing to complain about. Sometimes, we have to cry, we have to complain, but in reality…we are all fine.