Passionate. Rich crimson. Electric blue. Deep purple.

Bold brushstrokes of paint across a canvas, perhaps later shredded with a box-cutter in a fury of artistic abandon. The mad fervor with which an inspired writer does not sleep, but scribbles away in the darkness, until pages and fingertips are stained with ink.

A frenzied rhythmic dance between two or more lovers, hidden away in a world that was created and exists just for them. A picture frame shattered on the floor nearby, remnant of an excited altercation.

Purple blossoms across ivory skin. A lone pillow damp with salty tears.


A madness—

“But I don’t want to go among mad people.”
“Oh, you can’t help that. We’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad.”
“How do you know I’m mad?”
“You must be, or you wouldn’t have come here.”

Perhaps to be passionate is to be driven by a force that can never be satisfied.

Perhaps passion is an art. A demon. An emotion that consumes, like madness, like fire. Spirit. Soul. Love. Hate. A [passionate] suffering.




Would you give up everything to suffer for that which you are passionate about?

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