3. Write about something that you love to do. (200 words)
To the untrained eye, it was simply a crowded airport terminal. To me, it was a tense situation of cat and mouse, a test of wills to see whose would snap first. My eyes narrowed imperceptibly as the rival spy shifted in his seat. What was his motive? Was the symbol on his neck pillow a brand logo or a clue to his allegiance?
The boarding call interrupted my thoughts. I watched the nameless stranger tug his suitcase away, leaving behind another unfinished story.
I love people-watching and attaching fanciful explanations to ordinary interactions. Sometimes they're as grandiose as my airport narration. Most times, however, it's something simple and infinitesimal. The cashier checking her phone isn't being unprofessional; she's nervously anticipating news of her mother's surgery. The street corner beggar isn't an entitled bum; he's recovering from debilitating anxiety and it's all he can do to even be in public. This imaginative habit has instilled in me a moral principle of reserving judgment of everyone I encounter until given reason otherwise. It's a good reminder that everyone has a struggle, and even if my story of a stranger is hilariously inaccurate, that person still deserves kindness, regardless of circumstance.
people-watching
To the untrained eye, it was simply a crowded airport terminal. To me, it was a tense situation of cat and mouse, a test of wills to see whose would snap first. My eyes narrowed imperceptibly as the rival spy shifted in his seat. What was his motive? Was the symbol on his neck pillow a brand logo or a clue to his allegiance?
The boarding call interrupted my thoughts. I watched the nameless stranger tug his suitcase away, leaving behind another unfinished story.
I love people-watching and attaching fanciful explanations to ordinary interactions. Sometimes they're as grandiose as my airport narration. Most times, however, it's something simple and infinitesimal. The cashier checking her phone isn't being unprofessional; she's nervously anticipating news of her mother's surgery. The street corner beggar isn't an entitled bum; he's recovering from debilitating anxiety and it's all he can do to even be in public. This imaginative habit has instilled in me a moral principle of reserving judgment of everyone I encounter until given reason otherwise. It's a good reminder that everyone has a struggle, and even if my story of a stranger is hilariously inaccurate, that person still deserves kindness, regardless of circumstance.