On the train back from my weekly card-flopping adventures, I found myself musing at the relatively entertaining though of randomly hooking up with some chick I'd meet at a particular predatory bird's organized events. The really interesting bit was, would I ever do something that was, for the most part, an impulse driven act? Then the question lead me to HAVE I ever given into the heat of passion at ANY time in my life?
Sexually, I reckon only once have I ever put aside the ever present, ever churning logical machinery and just given into the spur of the moment. The occasion itself, besides the notable lack of control, was mostly non-descript. Once, with a particular rabbit that I used to have, we were just sitting, watching reruns of reruns, when the itch hit. It was the only time I recall where it was just passion with no thought, no control, and pure unhinged ecstasy.
The only other times that remotely approach the total abandonment that would characterise passion would be the malicious glee in which I happen to take when arguing.
It's only a break, he says. But from what I have seen, it looks like a break up. It would hurt, I guess, but it doesn't. Maybe that's the most hurtful of all.
To never need passion is a thing that will free me from the shackles of ever needing anyone else, and imprison me in a world of silence where nobody will celebrate my coming and going.
Maybe, just maybe, my passion is where I never have to say anything, because I will never be understood.
