Passion

Passion, following it and hiding from it are the processes that describe the equations of all the stories in the world. Passion and the desire to deal with it has nothing to do with sincerity. Passions can be flirted with utmost corruption. The corruption of perusal is in season. It competes with distraction, disinterest and distortion to encourage inaction. This corruption is sometimes perversity, sometimes tortuous, sometimes basically sporting conflicts of interest.

Holding something in your heart can be the trigger. Passion is a carcinogen. Passion makes the heart sick. Corruption rescues it.

This sickness leaves you salivating. Keeps you living in expectation and in the angst of refusal. This sickness is diagnosed as such keeping in mind the common desire to live longer. What keeps you alive and what kills you a little? Sickness sets off loops of self-appraisal, denial and confirmation. Wastes time, gives you something to do for all those years before you die.

In this diagnosis, passion is the throttle-hound that burns the fuel, the volume-level that makes the battery drain.

When you know what to do, you are doing first-degree murder. Pre-mediated, conscious. For those lost in the haze of confusion, murder is always an accident. At some point putting your hands in your pocket will yield a gun instead of your keys. It's always the wrong thing at the wrong time. Beyond the sickness is into the smoky sauna room of the naked goddess who never lets you know yourself very clearly. There can be hints, there can be enlightening moments, but never a point where you stand up on the chair and pretend to be nearer to the sun. Passion is the culprit with you strapped into the control room, finger glued to the ignition, firmly believing that the headphones are going to hiss with a yes at any moment soon. But they never hiss. The goddess is naked in a smoky sauna, she doesn't know where anything is. Passion is the one-sided distortion pedal.

Also passion gives you a reason to look forward into the future. If there was no looking forward to the future, it would never arrive. Hope produces the future. Passion produces the over-spilling, unable to contain, happy-to-share persona that rules the streets. And if there is a raw will, straight edged and dedicated to perform, it can be worn out, bent, maimed and perverted. As we collect passion here and study it carefully, we realise that we have explosive material on our hands. The orientation and calibration of this material can prepare me for untold abuse as I wait for the delivery of what my passion pines for. Or in a defeated, spent instant, it can also tempt me to destroy the world and outpouring my angst and frustration outwards.

The story of passion is one of miseducation. Not only are we taught and encouraged to be passionate, but if we are not we are rejected super fast. Passion is supposed to be the superdrive, the generator of the tension that fuels all meaningful action. The trance that produces the neurosis of consciousness. But in fact passion is only the noise in the system. It is only the additive that makes desires visible and then is useless. Being the particles of noise that rebound in our nerves, we have to struggle against it to even wake up and smell our shit. Imagine televisions being trained in the factory to blend noise into the picture by default. How much sense would that make?