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Passion for Anything
Mar. 21st, 2011 11:04 amSuppress it all.
Try as I might, I can't forget what I am, what's inside of me. This restrained passion... I can use it, yes. perhaps channel it to a new purpose. Human suffering is but a motivator for great art, is it not? And I've suffered, how I've ever done so.
Sating that passion would slake the beast, but is it key to my ambitions? To my dreams? Perhaps it's a boon. To be so deprived is to have dreams of what one cannot have, to fantasize the infinitesimal ways and meanings and symbols, the methods of writing.
I have no partner, therefore I desire a partner, a hunger that becomes fixation. And there are ways of using that, to supplement myself. There are ways to live off of wanting what I cannot have. If such things can speak to a human mindset, a similarly attuned human desire, then it is something I must pursue, at all costs.
I want to start writing. I want to start submitting writing to publication. I think now's the time, if it's still not too late.
Start now. Start the machine in your head. Keep writing. Never, NEVER stop writing, for it is the key to your passion. That is my message to you, to me, to my heart. There's always been a disconnect, hasn't there? Between my mind and my heart, and it is not easily bridged with so many potholes and wounds.
All right. Soon.
---
Human beings are strange paradoxes. They are capable of great expression, and of great limitation.
Perhaps the religious monks were right about something. There are desires within us, all of us, and in burying those desires we are capable of great things, great art. We push those thoughts into a place that's manageable, that allows us to influence others. Our passions give us fuel, gives us hunger.
There are so many around me that I can't talk about these things to. There are so many who are consumed in the moment, in the now, in who said what or what needs to be done, in the present, in the immediate. Are there enough who think about what it is to be us? About what we are capable of? Of what we are building to, before the inevitable end of everything?
In this time, I am given a short span of years. Relatively short, in the great human experience. All my thoughts, all my wondering, all my dreams will come to an end, one day, maybe, yes. Perhaps I could carry it on through children. Or perhaps I can influence others, such as they carry my dreams for generations, however long human beings can categorize their pasts and allow themselves to care beyond what is happening around them.
All it hinges on is getting people to listen. Not easy.
Done for now. Signing off.
Try as I might, I can't forget what I am, what's inside of me. This restrained passion... I can use it, yes. perhaps channel it to a new purpose. Human suffering is but a motivator for great art, is it not? And I've suffered, how I've ever done so.
Sating that passion would slake the beast, but is it key to my ambitions? To my dreams? Perhaps it's a boon. To be so deprived is to have dreams of what one cannot have, to fantasize the infinitesimal ways and meanings and symbols, the methods of writing.
I have no partner, therefore I desire a partner, a hunger that becomes fixation. And there are ways of using that, to supplement myself. There are ways to live off of wanting what I cannot have. If such things can speak to a human mindset, a similarly attuned human desire, then it is something I must pursue, at all costs.
I want to start writing. I want to start submitting writing to publication. I think now's the time, if it's still not too late.
Start now. Start the machine in your head. Keep writing. Never, NEVER stop writing, for it is the key to your passion. That is my message to you, to me, to my heart. There's always been a disconnect, hasn't there? Between my mind and my heart, and it is not easily bridged with so many potholes and wounds.
All right. Soon.
---
Human beings are strange paradoxes. They are capable of great expression, and of great limitation.
Perhaps the religious monks were right about something. There are desires within us, all of us, and in burying those desires we are capable of great things, great art. We push those thoughts into a place that's manageable, that allows us to influence others. Our passions give us fuel, gives us hunger.
There are so many around me that I can't talk about these things to. There are so many who are consumed in the moment, in the now, in who said what or what needs to be done, in the present, in the immediate. Are there enough who think about what it is to be us? About what we are capable of? Of what we are building to, before the inevitable end of everything?
In this time, I am given a short span of years. Relatively short, in the great human experience. All my thoughts, all my wondering, all my dreams will come to an end, one day, maybe, yes. Perhaps I could carry it on through children. Or perhaps I can influence others, such as they carry my dreams for generations, however long human beings can categorize their pasts and allow themselves to care beyond what is happening around them.
All it hinges on is getting people to listen. Not easy.
Done for now. Signing off.