"it is obvious that we can no more explain a passion to a person who has never experienced it than we can explain light to the blind."
i've been thinking a lot on passion lately. that satisfying turning and burning i get in the pit of my stomach when i'm preparing to sit and write. the way i can't help that my eyes collect water in their corners or the goosebumps on my skin when a song comes on that spurs a moment i know must be written, brought to life. or how when i have so much inside of me, swelling, bursting at the seams that i know i must run or scream, scratch a pad of paper with some charcoal, smash some paint against a canvas, have someone scrape my skin with a needle and ink...something, anything to satisfy the passion, this craving, this compulsion i have inside of me.
and what of those who don't have this beautifully agonizing ever persisting presence in their lives? i know i would wither away without it; burn into ashes and flutter along a breeze, hopeful of finding some meaning, some purpose, some self-fulfillment.
"the excellency of every art is its intensity, capable of making all disagreeable evaporate."
*joaquin sorolla y bastida: the milkmaid painting