Passion

Neither of us were happy, so he packed his bags after just four months in our home together. I was left wandering the rooms of the big house with the garden overlooking the South Downs, wondering what happened. I’ve never been one for putting up. Apart from when it comes to love. With him, I kept waiting, year on year, for the penny to drop and for us to, well, just click. Every time we spent a few months apart, we thought we’d got the message and came back full of hope and passion. It never lasted long. And I’d keep putting up with it as long as I could. He felt the same.

I’m not one for over thinking things. That’s the best way to get nothing done, and the best way to make sure nothing ever changes and nothing gets interesting. You’ve got to keep adding stuff to the mixing pot. If I had thought too hard when I found myself pregnant, I would never have become a single mum, gone to university, become a writer, and had the honour of raising the best little girl ever to live. If I hadn’t, one rainy day, decided I was going to rescue a dog, I would never have met my Prince Charming, my Billy, who fills my world with love and joy. Even going to university, I just got the forms and did it one afternoon. I move on my gut instinct, and I am learning to trust it.

By conventional standards, I’m somewhere over in left field, grappling with alligators whilst those in the middle smooth down their shirts and move from one predictable step to the next with little fuss. Often, I envy them. They are stable; I am frighteningly bipolar. They have money; I spend mine. But I have feeling, I have passion. I have very high highs and very low lows. I feel everything, every moment of my life, wholly and truly. I mean everything I say, everything I do, totally and utterly, at the moment I do or say it. I have conviction, even in my errors. Aside from my low lows, there is a lot to envy there. I am passionate and I am turbulent. When I’m left to my own devices, shit gets interesting.

I have talents, and if I plough my energies into the things I love to do, the things I am good at, the things I am trained for, I can create. It is time now to have faith in who I am, and what I am capable of. I like myself more when I’m sitting at my desk, by the light of my anglepoise, with a glass of wine and my pen and ink pictures taped up to the wall in front of me. Dropping my fingers lightly over the right keys in order like I’m playing piano. When I’m playing words like music, pushing my passion into rows of letters on screen that together take on some meaning. This is how I’m blessed and cursed with these emotions of mine. That is where love and beauty exist, where fun and joy and triumph and magic live, in the poles. You do not find the glory and tragedy of humanity in the middle ground. Art is not something that can be done with numbers on a spreadsheet, or by organisation, adherence and safety. It cannot be done with rules, behaviour or decency. I am here to shake things up. This is my purpose. Money cannot buy it.

I may be mad, but you will thank me for it. It is better to be utterly ridiculous than utterly boring.

What is your madness? What is your purpose? Where, my love, is your passion? Show me…

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