Passion : 01.13.03 @ 5:55 pm

Poetry has long since left me. I never would have thought it possible. Writing doesn't just leave a being does it? The ability to express yourself in a few short words, it can't just evaporate over time, or can it?
I never had the way with words that some of my friends did. Sure, I could ramble for a few lines and my English teacher would give me a B, or sometimes an A, but I could never write poetry that was from the soul, not do I expect to. I'll leave that to the people who were born to do that (Colby). I was born to see. I was born to see what I see and ensnare it, entrap it for later viewing. Trapped forever on a negative, on a piece of paper - a glint in the eye, a look, a smile - the sun setting over the tree tops - a man, reading his newspaper on the subway - a child, laughing on the merry go round.
I was born to see.
What did I do in past lives, before I had this medium? How did I express my warring emotions about the world? How did I express my hate, my love, my wonder of this world that is mine, yours, ours to share? Did I write? Did I battle? Did I preach? Did I paint with different, perhaps less clumsy fingers?

How do people live without a medium, an outlet, a way to express themselves? Do those CEO's have a thing to do when they come home from work? A thing that makes them feel whole? Do they write? Do they ponder? Do they paint? Or do they, spent, collapse into the arms of sleep?
Or, perhaps, people can survive without expression. Perhaps people can live and breathe without a release, without a passion.
How dull their hearts must be. A faded, crusty red that beats not for love, passion, or drive, but because it is told to continue its monotonous rhythm until a time comes when it can be free of such a tiresome chore.
I am glad that I have been blessed with a passion that will always make my whole being smile and nearly sing with joy.

/A
mood: poetic, contemplative
music: Vivaldi- "Larghetto" and "Summer"

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