What am I passionate about? ‘So many things’ is the blithe answer that trips so lightly off my tongue. But is it really passion to the highest degree, do I know what I am talking about?
Is it passion which absorbs and consumes, sucks you in and leaves you breathless? Is it passion leaving you craving for more filling you with love and energy and laughter, giddifying you with joy?
No. It is a random collection, a hodge-podge. Smattering of ideas picked up hither and thither, views jostling by insights, feelings I momentarily try on like clothes in a shop.
I am such a magpie. All that sparkles is my gold. One shimmer, one sparkle and I’m there in a flash, pecking and investigating, cooing over its coolness. Pretty shiny, I grasp, pull out and clutch. But then the glimmer reappears elsewhere and my attention is instantly diverted. Still I hover, still I swoop, digging for treasure in the mud, believing I am passionate about everyone and everything. When in fact I am anything but a passionate torrent sweeping aside everything in its path. Instead, I remain the meandering little stream, pooling up in shallow banks, excited by nought so much as fools’ display.