My grandpa told me to follow my heart and don’t let anyone get in the way of my passions in life. Little did I know, being 10 years old at that time, that passion was found only years later. Everyday after my grandpa spoke those words, I’ve created a path of adventure towards the goal to finding my greatest passion. I’ve tried finding girlfriends, but being 10 years old too, they weren’t too fond of the idea of being committed to me. I’ve even tried playing baseball, hoping that a sport can fill the empty space in my heart. What I’ve come to realize is that I have horrible coordination and that a baseball can leave nasty bruises.  So day by day, my sadness consumed me. Instead of being that little happy boy sitting at the dinner table telling my grandpa about my day, I’ve moped around wondering when my passion would knock on my door. Sooner or later, I’ve become crazy, almost unhuman-like. I would go to school and trip people in the hallways, knock down trophy cases and draw the most inhumane pictures on the chalkboard. Why couldn’t I find my passion in life? Why is it so easy for other people to have hobbies and I can’t even catch a stupid baseball? Days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months until I was expelled from elementary school. Teachers saw me as a threat to their student’s safety and that “my psychotic behavior was questionable”. Their issue was that they didn’t understand, they didn’t understand the aching need of finding something that wasn’t there. Eventually my grandpa grew scared of me as well. One night I was pulling my hair out and the next I was being transported to a mental institution. I was only 11 years old by then. I guess you can say the white walls calmed me down for only a little while until I grew insane again. As my thoughts started to consume the last of my sanity, I itched to look at some other color than clothes and floors that looked like milk. This continued until I was 15 years old. Even the nurses grew frightened of me so they locked me in a padded room similar to the size of my bathroom. The only thing that decorated the room was a window. The window was about the size of a piece of computer paper. But that didn’t matter because in my fifteenth year of life, 5 years of trying to find my passion, that very window gave me a wonderful gift. Groggily walking to the window, forcing my feet to step in front of the other, I managed to come face to face with the window. That’s when I saw it, the pop of color I craved for, the necessity to fill my heart. Floating in front of the window was the most beautiful valuable I’ve seen in my life, something to grow old with, finally a passion to be proud of.  Raising my right hand, I reached outwards to touch it, only to be blocked by glass. My valuable seemed to stare at me, sad. My anger grew, so I raised my fist and threw it towards the glass with unimaginable strength. Shards flew around me and landed by my bare feet. I was bleeding, but I didn’t care as I climbed out the window towards my love. Shivers crawled up arms as I came in contact with the balloon. Holding it as tightly as I could, like it was my only life source, I ran. I ran so far away from that place. I ran until my lungs hurt, legs ached, and eyes grew tired. But I didn’t care about myself anymore, I cared about the very thing in my arms. The thing that took me so long to find, and it felt damn great to finally have it. Sneaking on bus to bus, I’ve come to find some abandoned house on top of a hill. In that very house during a time frame of 12 years, I’ve managed to find 120 more balloons and loved every single one of them with all of my heart. I didn’t care about my grandpa and the police who were constantly on the search for me. All I cared about are the colorful, priceless balloons that surrounded me everyday. Sitting side by side with me during meals, crying with them while watching ‘The Notebook’, and feeling them under my shirt in the comfort of my bed made balloons a huge part of my life. No matter how many times I heard the news announcing awards for whoever finds me, no matter how many times kids cry when I take what’s mine from them, the balloons remain loyal to me. The balloons will never leave me and I don’t plan on leaving them. Ever since I was 10 years old, my grandpa said to not let anyone get in the way of my passion. So following his words, no one will take me away from my balloons. No one. Well, until one decided to leave me for a cactus. That one broke my heart just a fraction, but I know the others are still faithful.