"Above all, be true to yourself, and if you cannot put your heart in it, take yourself out of it."
So what is the glass onto which I pour out my heart? What is the catalyst to actions I cannot seize in the cage of logic or the command of restraint? When reaction is almost impulse and cheered by the battery of pure emotion, what invites this? As if my passion were itself a living parasite, momentarily set apart, seated with its legs crossed and a steaming cup of honey-camomille tea before it, I offer it this composition as a chance to answer for itself.
My passion leans forward, inhales the tea steam, the scent of cinnamon from the stick he tossed in the kettle. My passion cannot define itself without speaking about obsession. For you see, Obsession is my passion's Passion. Obsession is the evolution of memories, conditioning, and conflict all converging into a concentrated dose, that swims through your veins in boiling tempest. Its an addiction and my passion needs its fix constantly, ceaselessly at times. Absorbing obsession from my body; from any corner where it could locate a drop, a morsel, a single nucleus or atom of obsession. Its become that finally I've become an obsession-producing vehicle; a factory of fixed ideas, assembled and mounted onto a conveyor belt that ends right into the stomach of my passion.
How do I form my obsessions? I doubt my passion cares enough to wonder. But my obsessions come about easily enough, through thorough stimulation. I recently told a very attractive insomniac that "senses were made for sensations". Impressions that are strong enough, sharp and shocking enough to attach, cut, or vibrate my memory and its adrenaline, are the persistent, little fists that knock on the doors of habit. If something feels good, I want to repeat the feeling. After a certain amount of tolerance builds I have to escalate the methods in order to reproduce that feeling once again.
I have no passions only obsessions. But because of those obsessions I exercise my actions passionately. I see the world loudly, I feel the kingdom of galaxy as one shrinking wave in an ocean of universe. Pain becomes eternal agony, pleasure becomes exponential bliss, women become goddesses and words double-edged swords, songs are floating prayers that on their way to heaven, riding airwaves find my ears and dance under laser beams of thoughts. My obsession is attention, its looking at everything long enough to discover its oneness, its unique participation in a universe that continues to expand, continues to change so much so, that no two seconds within that universe have ever repeated--quite impressive if its at all true that the universe is in fact, infinite.
A kiss because nuclear fusion; sunsets, daily paintings; and evolution is the perfect instrumental for life to sing over. My passion finds these things, hurries forth and devours them, slowly like decomposition. My passion is a disease, an infection, its a cancerous appetite, never satisfied. My passion pulls on my obsessions and my obsessions pull on my attentions. It cracks open the doors of perception and peers in slightly, each inch begs for another inch until the door, wide open swallows me in. And why not? There are times when a person must jump into the water before learning to swim, not because one's life is in danger but because one's life is curious; that is passion.
With his hands clasped behind his head as he lies on the floor of our apartment, my passion nods his head approvingly of my description. He bites skin from his lips and returns to notice patterns on the paint-chipping ceiling. He's humming a melody unknown to me. Our apartment is usually an empty studio, nothing but windows, walls, a floor and a ceiling. I furnish the studio with obsessions, constantly pulling them in from outside, providing a home and place for their amusement as well as ours. My passion wears them out, each piece of furniture fades and eventually disappears. No sooner than I decorate a corner, or adorn a window, than my passion disassembles the hinges, chews the fabric, absorbs the varnish--returning the studio to a blank slate by the time I return with a new set of obsessions. It seems we won't rest till the whole universe has come and gone through the digestive system of our studio.