I feel like I’ve been very absent lately. As if my passion has been misplaced, drawn from my bones and hidden somewhere inside of me. I am an intensely passionate woman, in the things I enjoy, the people I love, the words that I speak, the thoughts that I think. When I love, it is not intermittent, submissive, or fleeting. It is whole. It is committed, unconditional, and burns with fiery passion. I would write paragraphs to my lover every day to tell him how much I love him and why. I suppose it isn’t always easy for others to understand such intense love and emotions. I always feel empty when I express so much to someone I love, only to get a short and simple response in return. My heart tricks me. My mind knows that a simple response is just as full of love as my paragraphs, but my heart bleeds out, expecting to be refilled by returned passion. But lately, I’ve been feeling blank. Like a page, clean and unwritten. No ink drops, no words, sketches or scribbles. An unfortunately normal page in a book filled with excitement. I’ve been neglecting my desires, my burning passions, pushing them away inside of myself to make room for normality. I’m told that I can’t be alight with strange curiosity, pour out such intense love, break down in tears and anxiety, cling to a loved one…it’s as if emotions and excessive passion get in the way of being “normal”. For some, normality may be satisfying. But I need excitement. I need that rush of adrenaline when I do something dangerous or frowned upon. I need the feeling of love bursting from my veins for all of the world to see. I need scribbles on my pages. To keep ones passions burning inside is a disaster. They will only end up going up in flames. Passion cannot be tamed or quieted. Nothing can put the flame out. Don’t let your book be full of blank pages, let it be a beautiful mess. Let there be scribbles and images, words uncensored, the blood of your heart, the burns of your passion. It is then that you will find your happiness.
