whilst reading through one of my old journals i stumbled upon the passion i always speak of. the passion i thought i lacked. the passion i actually possess in what seems to be an inexhaustible amount.
the kind of passion that becomes dormant when untouched, unexcavated. i wrote about my ex the way 18th century writers wrote about seeing a woman’s wrist. As if it was the most passionate, glorious love-filled exeperience one could have.
i am passion. i run so deep that i exalt at all there is left to uncover
