"Passion, it lies in all of
us, sleeping, waiting... It speaks to us... guides us... Passion is
the source of our finest moments. The joy of love, the clarity of
hatred, and the ecstasy of grief. It hurts sometimes more than we can
bear. If we could live without passion maybe we'd know some kind of
peace, but we would be hollow -- empty rooms shuttered and
dank. Without passion we'd be truly dead." (BtVS S2)
Sometimes
I think Angelus' thoughts on it says it best.
There are
a number of things I am passionate about, but only one thing I love.
Love is stronger than passion and rightly so; this seems an easy
enough concept for people to accept, but even as it may be, passion
is not something to be taken lightly. To have a passion for something is to be tied to
it. In some way it is tethered to your very being and essential to
your personage. For some reason, the word 'passion' is used much in
the same lax way as the word 'love'. I feel this dilutes the intended
meaning for the words. There are so many words in the English
language and yet these words are rather limiting. Perhaps that is why
over time 'passion' and 'love' have become interchangeable. My
instinct tells me that they are closely related and it has been my
experience that it is very much the case. Maybe because love, for
someone like me, implies that I am also passionate for the thing I
love. In this case, a person -- another being. However it is
not a bi-conditional statement; P implies Q but not vice versa.
Passion does not necessarily imply love. It may be that there is much
confusion because, for many, it is sufficient. So in that case, it is
sufficient to say that they love x because they are passionate for x.
And so the two are never separated and they become wishy-washy things
that elude people and continue to plague them by dancing around in
the haze. It casts a provocative shadow and the glimpses are hard to
grasp, but all the same are breathtaking too. I think maybe that is
the obsession with such things. They seem a bit
unattainable. There
is need for the word 'passion', I think, and need for the separation.
It represents something very distinct. People have forgotten what it
was or have not been educated otherwise, yet still they continue to
have passions. They say they love those things, and mayhap they do,
but passions in the present age are equivalent to mere strong
curiosities and inclinations.
In simple terms: Passion is fashion
nowadays.
So who
are those of true passions, pure and undiluted? This I ask myself. It
should be easy to distinguish the genuine from the spurious, though
many cannot tell. Sometimes it is almost a palpable aura and one can
feel it seeping from the very pores of a passionate man; likewise,
the apocryphal fanatics of garish whims air a stench that reeks of
burning plastic -- the smell of bandwagons. Still, other
times it is not so apparent. And it becomes a game much like the one
the 'academics' play with the 'intellects'. The world of passions
becomes this gaudy masquerade with masks and feathers and pearls and
the smell of bodies jostling about one another on the dance floor.
And when you look closely enough you find that you cannot remove some
of their masks. Oh the
shock! That their masks are not masks at all but the real form of
their faces! At first it seems an odd juxtaposition to the normality
of the elegant gowns and handsome tuxedos. It might be that they were
not born with these features, but they seemed to have developed them,
grown into them, and now it is a part of them. It seems to me that
passions can be very much like this. And then you come to one whose
mask rips off and the cheap elastic snaps with a decisive sharpness,
you find yourself taken aback and disappointed. You see their face
suddenly as this blank piece of round flesh and it repulses you to
the point of disgust. The 'deformity' of the maskless is preferable
to the shapelessness of the paraders.
How
does one define passion? Do you at all? It strikes me as one of those
'immeasurables'. Take for instance my affinity for music: It has
become one of my most defining traits and grown into my strongest
passion, only second to my passion linked with my love. For a long
while I was under the impression that I loved music. It was a fine
assumption actually, until I found what true love was. However, this
put into perspective the profundity of music even in the role of
passion instead of love. In truth, it has strengthened what music is
and means to me in part because I have found its proper function. My
passion for music has afforded me some of my most precious memories
and offered me a venue through which I may grow, create, and nurture
my potential. This is extremely similar to what love also can do, but
again there is a major distinction. My passion is intimate and
personal and inward. It is that of which my cave is constructed where
the tyrannies of the world cannot touch me. And though I may share my
passion completely with my love -- because all that is mine
and me is always his and us -- it feels it is very much
mine. I know not how to phrase this accurately. It seems the ideas
and conceptions I hold of my passion are conflicting, but the
tensions are important. It is burning and strong, yet I possess the
impulse to be protective of it as it is fragile and delicate. I
suppose I have this inclination because music is close to me.
Self-preservation at work, though not in any direct sense. It is a
subtle instinct. I suppose I would find myself a little lost without
it because it is so intricately twined into my person. I think one
might find there is music in the double-helix. I bet my atoms move in
rhythm. I do not presume to know which rhythm.
I am asking the wrong questions it seems. That's
the trouble with words. You never know quite how to ask and when
someone tries to answer you they hardly ever know what you're asking.
Words are not always enough. But I am still just skirting around all
the things I am trying to say. That is one of the reasons I chose
music and music chose me. I have no affinity for words, but I know
how to communicate through music. I am freed from the limitations of
my feeble vocabulary. It is in my music that I am privileged to find
passion itself. And perchance while listening to the music I will
come across some great stroke of genius. Or maybe it will reveal
itself as all having been my genius just waiting to be realized. It
might be this was the reason for my musings on passion. I have been
feeling it all building up inside of me, the music just swirling
around in my head itching to get out. It puts me rather off balance
after years of being immersed in the musical world. Now, choosing to
step out of it, I am restless and have not the slightest sometimes
with what to do with myself.
Musicians
cease when there is no more music left in them.
It seems easier to just ask the
stars. They too are on fire and may relate to my plights and perhaps
because they have no need for my language, they will know what it is
I inquire. But even here, in this realm and on this earth, I find
that some of my best moments are grounded in my passions. It might be
accurate to say that most of them have been. And here is why a
separation between love and passion is necessary: it acknowledges the
weight of passion without the ballast of love's magnitude. Do not
mistake me. Love in no way is diminished by this particular type of
sundering.
Both
are extreme, sometimes dangerous, powerful
affirmations of life.
