What Is Passion?

Dreaming of a poet's state of mind but falling short of my Scorpio potential.

I once told a friend that I loved Jamie T. The rhythmic thud of his music was great for my runs (back when I was insane and used to run a lot), pacing each beat to the flat-footed slap of my foot fall.

But I’ll never forget a time I attended a house party (I’m aging myself here) and a lesser known song of his began to play. As she enthusiastically half rapped/half sung each lyric in my face, it came to her sudden realisation that I didn’t know the words. Along with a baffled widening of her eyes, she had exclaimed, ‘But I thought you loved Jamie T?!’.

If only Sticks N Stones, or Shelia or Zombie had blasted through the durnken mass of sweaty bodies pounding spilt alcohol into the sticky carpet and bumping against make out sofas, lifting up hands holding homemade Snake Bites, and we could all have shouted horsely in mocked accents at once: ‘Shelia goes out with her mate Stella!’. Then I could’ve chorused in like the basic fan I was, diligently spewing out every word. Or at least might’ve sang incoherent made up words that sounded oh so similar to the correct lyric but I had incorrectly interepted once and now couldn’t scramble my brain to remrember the true word, and in doing so had maintained my position as a lover of his music. Alas no, this was a song I couldn’t even pretend to know and so the love I have declared was now egg on my face and I could no longer call myself a Jamie T fan.

Now, is the issue here my being hyperbole when I say ‘I loved him’, or is the issue that I just don’t have enough passion to truly say I love anything?

Take my star sign for example; I am a Scorpio. Which I can see your brain has done the immediate equation of: Scorpio = Passionate. It thrills me that my star type should envelop this kind of characteristic but if I’m honest I’m not sure it is who I am.

Not when I compare myself to many passionate characters I know and love - I'm certainly no wistful Marianne Dashwood, even if I did spend my teenage years of basically sitting with my head in a dreamlike state of being obsessed with romance and boys. And despite my love for writing, my dedication to penmanship is little more than a scribble on the postit compared with the greats. I have a stack of embossed letter writing paper dusting away wishing to be used and the corners of my flat are now museum relics of hobbies I still harbour a muted passion for, but lack the enthuse to take up with any kind of regularity - I’m looking at you knitting needles from the year 2020. Of course unsurprisingly the most passionate people of all are poets - this a breed I am now totally enamoured by, if a little afraid of.

Having lurked on the periphery poetry for quite some time it took until I turned thirty to really ‘get’ poetry and dive into poems. It began small, with poets on instagram - women who bravely produce (what seems like daily) a stream of modern poetry that is both accessible and enviable in its metrical form. Then I waded further into the water by joining a poetry class/community, hosted by the most exuberant and grasping-life-by-the-balls kind of woman you will every come across. And now I am somewhat stonewalled by the forbearers and inundated with books upon books of classic female poets, each with more emotion than I have ever felt, let alone read about.

I’ve come to the conclusion that to be a poet, you have to be passionate with yourself and let your emotions run deep. I am utterly intimidated by Plath’s sophisticated metaphors and Sexton’s raw feelings. And in awe of poets today which manage to write lyrically yet concisely sharp. The challenges of old poets and the excitement of new - I’ve found to be educating and exhilarating. It's inspired me to write my own, and hark back to the days when I was heady with emotion, to try and tap into my youthful bubble.

It has also made me think about what it means to be passionate and if I am in the right mindset for it. I should probably check if ‘contrarian’ is a typical trait of Scorpios, I feel this I embody the most. And can a contrarian be passionate? If I’m always fence sitting, then I’m never actually latching and growing grassy roots of any one field.

And can a contented person have passion or any sort of emotional cravings? Or is contentment a masquerade of being numbed by the modern world. Sucked in by entertainment, have I forgotten to be in tune with myself, to be present, and mistaking this for satisfaction?

The final hurdle of course if the old hell hound that is fear of being derivative. Derivative of other’s works but also derivative of my own work, my own same paragraph even! Am I destined to always write the same metaphors repeatedly? Somehow writing about either food or nature springs to mind. Contrarily (smirk) I can’t get enough of food and nature writing so who’s to say what’s derivative and what is an inspired kink.

I feel it is my lot to receive passion, to consume inspiration and there’s a gate within me that doesn’t seem to open, a well that doesn’t flow outwards. I don’t think I am a giver of passion. I admire in awe but it never shines through me. Tiredness courses through my veins, and I am pumped by others elixir of life. I am a vampire (which I suppose is ‘Scorpio-like’). Not that I want to suck the passion from you! No, I want to bask in it’s radiance, share the atmosphere of the glow - in which case I guess I’m more a flower, breathing in your exhaled co2, unable to rectify my own wilting alone.

At its core, this is what makes me such a great/prolific reader. Absorbing the creativity of others. Even with as much passion as I can muster, it doesn't amount to actually living with my nose in a book. Although my child-self could attest to being that, perhaps I used up all my passion at the age of ten…

The most frustrating thing about being a passionless person with a passions is the belief, of my love, diminishing in other’s eyes. Are my passions any less meaningful that because I am not obsessed with them? I think it’s passion in my own way. Mine is not a blackhole that consumes itself; it doesn't overtake my waking life. I think I’m equal parts glad of that and disappointed by it.

I do dream to jump off the highest diving board into the deepest pool of my own soul, but I think perhaps my soul cannot withstand that kind of depth. It trickles, like a brook, no less brilliant in its beauty compared to a waterfall; perhaps it has a quiet intensity - but an intensity nonetheless.