passion.

what is passion anyway?
why do so many people throw themselves into hobbies or work?
why do we have to have a little 'thing' that we just love?
is it what makes us who we are?
unique?
expressed?
talented?
...special?

are these sports, this art, these achievements or even relaxation self-therapies part of our very being from the day we're conceived?
and what makes me lose desire to do something i once loved? and what makes me so hesitant to try something i know i could love, but that someone else would know i'm worse than them at?

'maybe you should find something you're passionate about.'
maybe there isn't anything. not really anyway.
maybe your passion is people.
is that enough?
maybe it's words.
literature.
poetry.
diaries.
novels.
speeches.
dramas.
grammar.
dictionaries.
languages.
.
there are so many things that make up one simple passion.
words.

my passion can't be people. half the time i'd rather sit alone and only think about others.
it can't be physical activity.. because i'd rather sleep than run. though sometimes my adrenaline's so thick and my energy so deeply numbed and blotted out that i feel i'll burst if i sit still a moment longer. maybe i need to run.
it can't be art.. because i paint when i find someone else's idea. i can't paint what's in my own mind because it never comes out how i wanted it to. i feel like i failed unless i see the beauty and mimic it perfectly. but how is it my own that way?

is this my own? these babblings and simple strings of sentences i like to call poetry. an expression of my own twisted, stubborn, tensed, ignorant mind. i don't know enough, i don't want to know enough, and the bottom line is: i'm not enough.
when passion fails, the heart feels empty.
and where is life when there is no passion?
so my life, without passion, is nothing.

maybe it does make me unique.
maybe it does make me special.
it marks my territory in this world that i so desperately long for because of my insecure human nature. it makes me feel alive, renewed, understood, or even purposely misunderstood.
understand that you do not understand, and maybe i will have met my goal.

the truth is, this ridiculous mind has no goal.
it only thinks out loud, in rhythms, in letters, in hugs, in half-hearted or bursting smiles.. or a read-between-the-lines tired eye that wishes to feel and live just that little bit more, but has no idea how to get there.

maybe it's easier being stuck in a mind of no limit.
it's both freeing and restricting in a healthy, yet frightful way.