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?

The Elusive Goose

What in the world is an elusive goose!?

Let me tell you.

When I used to stay with my dad’s parents overnight, I remember my Nonnie would often be up late, on the computer in the room next to mine. She was on the computer a lot, and as I got older, I would be on when she wasn’t, because I liked to write, and of course the easiest way to do that was through use of Microsoft Word. I also remember that she had this Mahjong game installed on her computer—a simple one that just involved matching the tiles until they all disappeared, and I loved to play it, too, especially because it was kind of like a quest, with different levels, with the objective of each level to unlock and match the golden yin and yang tiles. Anyway. There was a tile with an illustration of some type of bird on it, that resembled a chicken or a goose—I never really could tell which. (Come to think of, it may also have resembled a peacock…) Sometimes, Nonnie would sit in a chair close by and watch me play, and see matches that I didn’t.

I don’t remember how it began. Maybe I was having a particularly hard time finding matches to that certain tile, and started to complain about it. I think, in a very quick voice, I said something like, “I hate that stupid chicken!” and she laughed. Then, perhaps the same night or maybe it was another one, perhaps out of nowhere, in a funny, quirky voice, I called that bird “the elusive goose!” and she laughed again. So I did it again, and again, and I kept saying that because she kept laughing.

Nonnie has a new computer now, and we don’t have that Mahjong game anymore, but I wonder if she remembers that time. I think I’ll email her a link to this post and see. Maybe she’ll smile and laugh again.