prepare for work, drive to work, work…
After office hours, drive home, dinner, sleep…
Somewhere between the twenty-four hours, you get to eat what you want, talk about nonsense, talk with sense, talk to sensible people, if you get lucky, maybe talk yourself out of sense or whatever 😉
Life is what we make it. We make it the people we love, or maybe with those not so much. Matthew 5:13 reads,
“You are the salt of the earth, but if salt has lost its taste, how shall its saltiness be restored? It is no longer good for anything except to be thrown out and trampled under people’s feet.”
Passion is word I try to work myself into. It’s the salt in everything that we should do. It’s usually what makes the ordinary a crème brûlée, or everything else becomes just common custard bleah.
It’s not always a happy thought, we might be washing dishes or doing dirty laundry with a mother’s love or doing the same thing with an ex’s angst, at least you’re not doing it with apathy and find yourself trampled under people’s feet.
Happiness is a choice. A continuous pursuit of what we need to find to take us to that happy place. Passion is the vehicle of that pursuit and the end goal is the fire of that passion.
When we reach the end of a goal, passion kicks our ass into mapping out a new pursuit. Life is more colorful if it’s a series of full cycles radiating into big ones, than when it is a big bam kablam!
Why would you want to wash the dishes perfunctorily when you can do it squeaky clean with Maroon5 on the background or Gloc9’s anti bullying hit .
Why would you do laundry with a grudge when you can absolutely do it with pizzaz. You know, read while your on laundry spin or classify the hangers and clothespins per type or color, just so you get to index the clothes according to hanger type ( a bit OCD I know but it works for me).
Why would you take it on face value what they show on HBO when they give you GoT (Game of Thrones) series, when you know very well you can already write a review on George Martin‘s books and you so desperately want to wring out the last installment from the writer’s liver already. Haissst! George Martin should stop killing all the major characters, it’s depressing me. Leave the direwolves be!
I know, sometimes it looks like you’re on a sugar rush and you seem to be all over the place. But that’s what passionate people do. You are restless, opinionated, sometimes comes off as a presumptuous asshole. When people meet you, there are only two things they can feel for you, it’s either they love you or hate you, there are no in between s, fire can only singed or cook, but it can never dull you to pieces.
You know what kills passion? a broken heart. As passion is painted with red and blood depicting life, a broken heart spills that blood all over the place. Making the rug stained red, instead of infusing it into your life fabric.
The biggest disappointment in people we love and care about breaks our heart. Woe betide anyone who breaks their heart on a stock market crash, maybe we really need to think it over, when we place our hearts together with our treasures. Broken heart makes you not want to care anymore. The thought of “what difference does it make?” becomes a record on repeat.
And that’s when you are trampled under foot of men. Get out of there! as soon as you can. Not only is it painful, it becomes pitiful when one gets used to the apathy and then you fade away into the ordinary, still living but already dead.
Dress up passion in the stitches in your fabric of life. When life gives you a curve ball, get up and hit it back again. Better that, than wallowing in ditches, safe and sound but not pretty much exciting.
You do not let a bleeding heart waste precious blood on the rug.
When your hit, it’s pretty much ok to lie down and roll over, recover and best of all, learn, but never get too comfortable. Get back up, wash the dirty dishes again and stop playing Adele for heaven’s sake.
What triggered this? I just came out from a paintball game and got a close and painful hit at the leg. Much as I wanted to get back in the game, it was already bleeding. I wanted to walk over to the enemy and shoot him right between his eyes just so to ease my pain, but walking was already painful enough. Okay fine, I’ll play another game of war next time, well prepared than just geared up. My visions of being Lara Croft ended up with a nasty hematoma.
I got out of the playing field and left the guys to their stupid war games. I went to the nearby pools, changed to my bikini, couldn’t care less if I displayed an ugly contusion in my left leg. Heck! I came here to have fun and soak up the sun. I can whinny and worry about possible complications later.
Right now I’m in my best bikini bod, climb up to a 50ft water slide then plunge down, screaming with passion, wet, wild and wicked.