I recently stumbled on this little snippet of writing from several months ago.
I took my little brother and his best friend to see Toy Story 3 a few days ago. They were the ones who were truly excited. They burbled and spilled their popcorn and to-infinity-and-beyonded each other all the way to our seats
But sitting in that theater, with tears quite literally running down my face, at the animated characters of a child’s film, I knew that the movie could be for any number of people. But it was for me. My generation is Andy. We grew up with Woody and Buzz, and all the dreams and fantasies that the movie portrayed. We lived and loved with all the shallow enthusiasm of childhood. And all of a sudden, we’re seniors in highschool and freshmen in college and we’re watching our dresser shedding its old layer of Legos and Star Wars figures and Barbie shoes, replaced by notes on the economic repercussion of labor unions and concert tickets and odd pieces of the technology that has replaced imagination.
And suddenly we realize that maybe the enthusiasm of childhood isn’t so shallow.
Maybe it’s now we’re missing something.
Sometimes the things we start with are best.