Romanticism

Today was one of the bad days. I hadn't slept much the night before, and in my third period photography class, I made a student cry. Certainly not one of my finer moments. As I was strolling away from work though, somehting great happened while I waited for my train: the TTC maintenance worker collecting grabage was whistling. In print, a dude whistling doesn't seen nearly as magical as it was at that very moment. He was a very good whistler, and the manner in which he was pushing out the notes (along with his garbage cart) conveyed such satisfaction and peace with the world, that one could not exist there in that moment without feeling a little bit better about being alive. I suppose it was fitting that I had closed out the day with a short lecture on Romanticism. People have told me since I was about 12 that I was a Romantic. By the time I learned what this actually meant (21), I found that I did indeed identify greatly with these emotional, impulsive,priveleged,and paradoxical people called 'Romantics'. As I moved into my M.A. year however, the cynic in me took hold. Idealism just seemed too immature. I wanted to grow up. Besides, the 'real world' was knocking at my door, taking me out to dinner, and fondling around in my sub-conscious. Gladly, my love affair with reality didn't completely obscure my ability to find joy and inspiration in the small moments that typically go unnoticed. For that brief time in the TTC, even after the day I had, I not only imagined this whistling wonder to be symbolic of all of the elusive happiness and peace of mind that I have been seeking; but I also imagined (for the briefest moment) that I could find that as well.