Passion


     Passion eternal. Oh, I wish. I wish so badly. Yet each wayward encounter, each virgin blossoming, each first flap of wings… transient. I wish not. Yet can I disobey the Sun? Can I make the rivers no longer run? Can but a wish make lies of truth?

     This cursed joy. This temporal bliss. From where does it come? Of what does it desire? Oh, why am I driven to such lengths? Without it I am nothing. With it, everything becomes nothing.

     The days wander and wither into blackness. Yet suddenly, oh so suddenly, it blossoms into… immaculate… unfathomable… wonder. Deriving from none other than the soul. This is when I feel. When I truly feel. This is meaning. This is when I know there is a reason. For sickness, for sadness, for strife. Yet in these moments, I fade away. I am simply a medium. A feeler.

     Perhaps I am mad. Perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps there is no reason for this… this single impermanence. Yet, I have not words. I have not explanations. I have not reasons. All I have is feeling. And it tells me there is something beyond.

     A flower picked is a flower at once killed. Yet I hope to be wrong. That its passion does not slip away. I hope. For a memory is eternal. For a meaning forever. I hope. Perhaps a flower once picked is a flower forever cheerful. It has caused a smile, a blush, a tear… it has felt. It has known passion. It has been given purpose. I’m hoping for it. I’m hoping its petals have not meaninglessly gone limp.

     But all I do is blunder. And stumble. And go nowhere. I find nothing. I only feel. I only hold proof of something. The answer. The immaterial nothingness giving everything to this material everythingness. I want to sing and scream and yearn and bellow and do all within my capacity to share… just to share this beauty. To give it away to each empty soul. To spread and envelop and wrap so that all can feel, so that all can be given everything.

     Yet the words do not come. A mute would say no different. But I try, I try, I try. Yet is this not burning? Is this not intense, voracious, relentless burning? Is this not intensity that melt all that touch? This is my worship. This defines every moment without. My words change nothing. But I try. I must try. Because if I give up on words… if I throw away this blessing… I am scum. I am lowly scum. Scum who casts away the ultimatum.

     Yet what, what is this? It brings me prostrate, yet I know nothing. It binds me mercilessly, yet I know nothing. Can I deny the source? Can I reject the key? Can I tuck it away, into the pit of my mind? Can I act like this is not the answer?

     And so I write. To try, to try, to try. To try to convey what it is to feel. To be. To know the soul exists. Still, I am a meager vessel knowing not of anything. Knowing not of the means. Knowing not of the power. Knowing not of the wisdom.

     Still, I feel.