Passion exists only to those with a pre-existing ember, smouldering in their core. One of two things can happen: The overbearing weight of our existential impossibility can smother it; or the spiteful fuck you of humanity rings out, daring the weight of everything to come crashing down because who fucking cares? It's this reckless abandon and the acceptance that our fleeting existence is the most meaning we will ever glean from the labyrinth of a universe we live in that allows us to displace that search for meaning and go after what makes the good times good and the bad times less bad.
Passion is a synonym for courage. We're all scared, I think. That what feels so important to us is so meaningless when confronted with the immensity of the universe. The courage comes from carrying on in spite of this. So we do what any person does when scared. We distract ourselves. This is what we as humans do on a daily basis. We go to work, we eat fast food, we consume way too much day time TV. We flirt with strangers, we take drugs, we shout at people working retail jobs just because we've had a shitty day. We shout from rooftops and play sports for fun. We game for hours on end and we become obsessed with fictional characters. We smoke, we drink, we fight because it all makes us feel alive. Now I know some people won't think what I'm saying is true. That's okay, because maybe it isn't. Maybe this is simply my understanding of it. Maybe I know nothing. Maybe that's okay too, we really know nothing about our place in the Universe.
With the pace that our current understanding gets corrected I can't be sure of anything. In fact, ironically, the only thing I'm sure of is that I know nothing at all. That's why you, me and everyone else find something to occupy our time. If we spent all the time thinking about this we would all end up mad. That's why for me it metabolises in the form of writing. For others it's sex, for others it's drugs, for others it's music, and for others it's anything they find better than nothing. That's why the idea of passion makes me uncomfortable. Once you accept that passion is simply a cover for fear it suddenly makes our idols seem small and terrified.
Before I realised this I used to be in awe of people who could dedicated themselves tirelessly to one thing for decades, but in actuality they are constantly distracting themselves from that feeling of terror ingrained in the fabric of our being. It's gotten to the point where I don't know why I write anymore. This is my shout into the void. Hoping against all odds my voice will be heard. If a nihilist screams into the void but no one is there to hear, do they really exist? Joking aside that is what drives me. I feel so alive in my moments of perfect understanding, but if my emotion isn't recorded for others to read it's like it never even happened. It's like the thoughts I have fade quicker than a candle snuffed out in the wind. Like a complimentary buffet at an obesity anonymous meeting. Like inhibitions when too much alcohol is consumed. Like compassion when greed kicks in. I guess why I'm writing this is that I want to be remembered, even if it's in the search history of a depressed teenager. I'll exist in some way more abstract than I ever could have hoped for. I guess that is my passion, my form of defying fear. I guess that matters.