Passion

The burning fire that brings you to madness, a pen in hand and a knife in the other, digging into your soul

Greetings, dear reader: It is I once again, Rachel Rosethorn. Please, try to ignore the cracks and holes in my mind, I hope one day to get them filled. Take a seat, would you like tea? Or do you prefer coffee? Water, maybe? What have you came for, dear reader? Conversation, perhaps? Thought? Maybe watching the cracks split open as I slowly descend? I promise, dear reader, just sit back, relax, and all will be happen in due time.

I actually have something I would like to discuss with you, dear reader: what is the point of passion? As a concept, I mean. The fact that we, as humans, can get infactuated with an idea and chase after that endlessly. That a burning feeling to make in our soul exists, to create, to own, to do, to be. What is the point of this, evolutionarily, I mean? You would think the function of passion would be to live, dear reader; but it feels more complicated then that. Is it to drive us to all do specific things in a group? That feels more correct, but still, something other than satisfactory. 

What frustrates me in trying to understand this concept is simple: that passion cant be taught. That it is triggered by core memories, typically, or some sort of fate-like force that rings us meaning. Its nothing, dear reader. Its a driving force for essentially no reason. I could inherently understand why something would exist in our minds if, for instance, that led someone to be more inclined to do a certain task in a tribe. Or, passion in romance makes complete sense, since humans are typically a monogamous species. But heres the problem, dear reader: none of that makes sense of creativity. 

None of that helps me understand the point of creativity, or the reason behind making art. Is it to discuss other emotions with people? Cant that be concluded with simple words? Why then, do we make art in the first place? Im just stumped. So, I ask dear reader: Is there a point to creativity? To drawing at the late nights, frustrated at lack of talent, to writing in the wee hours of the morning, barely stringing together thoughts, to simply being creative.

So why, dear reader, am I even here? Typing frantically, trying to spill the contents of my brain on a page before a spark is lost, in a fervor of thought and passion, a blinding, almost painful passion. Dripping my soul out onto each page, for simply no reason? Laying myself bare, hiding under flowery language and complex speech, trying desperately to make sense of my whirring thoughts, simply for the purpose of doing so? Im not satisfied with that damn answer.

..but I cant think of anything else, and I hate that. All I know is passion burns like hellfire, dear reader. It consumes your mind, it destroys your senses, you become something that exists solely for one purpose, if only for a moment. The only way to even attempt to solve this burning, biting feeling is to be able to get that creativity and those thoughts out. Dear reader, when does creativity become mania? When does passion become ramblings of someone whos brain just dumps chemicals in a fervor? Is there even a difference? As everything else, I do not have an answer, dear reader.

-Rachel Rosethorn