A Drop of what was once Passion


There comes a point when you can no longer forfeit what you feel for what is the more comfortable compliance, without some serious loss of presence. All of this time that you once spent in development can so easily be lost, and you are left with a shallow shell of what once was, and all of your capability is a memory. Achievable, you know, with disciplined time, but the window recedes further with each passing day, with each fleeting moment spent unfocused, unbalanced, untuned.

There must be some way to way to reconcile the need for introspective stillness with the needs of nurturing others. Some way to find concentration in the act of complacency. Some manner of extreme cognition in the shelter of what is acceptable. I don’t even know what I’m talking about.

There is a certain unreachable distant loneliness that resides within us all, and how to understand this, cherish it, embrace it, while harboring the movement of the wider world? To be an oyster with the pearls around your neck? To move ever inward, ever deeper, while fostering acceptance and even love in the face of mediocrity?

It is easy to mock the hungry passion of the misaligned, but not so easy to mock yourself in your dry stasis of daily existence. Where is the key that would unlock this door? Where the wind that would rustle skirts? Where the tiniest tip of real blood that would give credence to your emptiness?

Patience, patience, patience is the rhythm of your future dreams. It remains to be seen, the fruits that might fall from beyond your reckoning. Can you measure up to your potential? Will the secret corridors whose shapes are suggested in the profile of your silences open up one day to the masses, tickets sold out?

All remains to be seen. In the meantime, there is only our imagination.

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Author: manderson

I live in NYC.

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