Sunday, 19 July 2015

On the Matter of Passion.

'Passionate' is one of those words – like 'awesome' – that people routinely overuse in order to sound louder when they’re expressing enthusiasm. I’ve been guilty of it myself: 'I’m passionate about music.' 'I’m passionate about dogs.' 'I’m passionate about hot apple pie with cream.' I’ve said them all, but actually I’m not.

Passion is the faculty that tilts the wings on the plane of life and sends it soaring upward. It’s what subdues the fear instinct and encourages you to take risks that you would usually baulk at. It produces mental and physical tingles every time you contemplate the next fix, which is most of the time.

I realised recently that I have had only four passions in my life. One I gave away on a wet April night when I packed a bag and walked out of the house in a state of shock, another became out of bounds the day I acknowledged not being 32 any more, a third I simply lost interest in, and the fourth I gave up for ethical reasons.

And you know, life down here on the runway tarmac seems a little grey and pointless sometimes.

*  *  *

It’s off to YouTube now. Maybe I can ruffle some more feathers and get called stupid again.

(Oh, and the woman who wrote the hysterical, 18-line outburst hasn’t given up yet. She’s hurled some more bananas my way, including the accusation that I’m ‘amoral.’ That’s interesting because nothing I wrote could have given her the clue to the one thing she’s got right. Should I write back and congratulate her, explaining that I don’t even believe in the concept of morality, because..? No, better not. The poor woman seems terribly upset as it is, and I really don’t want to hurt her feelings any more. That would be unethical, wouldn’t it?)

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