Passion

This one's more of a random thought than anything

A question in the world's passing
which we know is around us
yet which we hardly ever stop
to look and really see

It seems that we miss so much;
opportunities, choices, beauty, and love
in our fervant run through the times

And, really, what are we running to?
what are we running from?
they're one and the same, really,
beginnings always prelude the ends.

And what are they to our simple eyes
if not mere dirt, water, and air?

So, in a world where the body is seen as supreme,
fashioned by the non-existant "Mother Nature,"
we really are quite confident
for such temporary things.

But, somehow,
miraculously, perhaps,
despite our worship of our own limited time and power and fate,
we do care.

We do fix and build and chase and strive,
we work for the epic "tomorrow."
and as the storyteller sings deep into the night
We listen and we hear.


Well, anyways, here's that entry.
I wrote in my diary last night.
Let me know what you think.

Passion. It's such a funny word. One among many in our largely unreal English language which has relatively no meaning but its own, and it's own meaning is none at all. We really have no idea of what passion truly is or was or means. So why is it so real? Why does it live so undoubtedly beneath each of us, fueling nearly our every action?

Why? Why do we hold such a strong power deep withing our hearts? Passion, which is love and hate and care and pain and work and speech and art and fear. It is in and of nearly everything we create. Which, in essence, is what we are. Creators. The moment we stop creating, we cease to exist, yet that creation is often displayed only in our own destruction.

Man was meant to work. It is inevitable. To build, to start, to grow, and to never ever stop. We have this strange and intrinsic concept of "purpose," which guides us to do all we do. A man must have a reason, an excuse for his existance, or he has no reason to exist at all. It is very ironic, therefore, that so much of our creation fights hard on destructive lines. That drive to be doing comes from a deep-set human push.

Which brings me back to my first question, the reason that I am writing to you at such a late hour, my hand moving fast as it scribbles across the page, racing for my devotion against the powerful call of slumber. Passion. What is it? Why do we even have or feel or need it? What is want and drive and need? Well, I suppose they are partly the reason we exist at all. It is our passions which fuel everything we do. Maybe that's the answer. Maybe passion is fuel; energy to be channeled in serving our own purpose.

And we do, indeed, have a purpose. Whether or not we chose to acknowledge it, the existance of choice is blatent and real. Yet so many chose to ignore its existance altogether, walking blindly and in doubt of their own reality. Perhaps it's because they're afraid. Afraid and, as so many in our world of doubts, unable to accept the existance of that fear. Afraid of what will face them if they do, indeed, exist. For with choice comes responsibility.

Yet with responsiblity comes connection, from which comes passion, and only with passion as our fuel can we ever create.

"He not busy being born is busy dying." Bob Dylan said that (big surprise, lol). That really is what it all boils down to. We're all busy. We must be. If we had nothing to do, we'd being doing nothing. And if that nothing is, in itself, truly absent of all something, man could never bear to do that nothing. If he could, everything would be nothing at all; a stalemate of standing time.
And he can't live in stalemate. It gets boring.