Passion is waking up at 4 in the morning to climb that mountain, through the fog and summer heat, to reach the top in sweat, just to witness the sunrise from another perspective. It’s finding an underground hidden spot while the city sleeps, drinking, giggling at every word and not getting tired of silly talks. It’s swimming into the darkness of the ocean, under the shining stars, eyes closed and mind cleared, risking our lives against the violent waves. It’s the countless nights spent barhopping with a broken heart, letting bad things happen for the sake of adventure, and falling asleep at sunrise. It’s the casual talks shared during the daily visits at the hospital, knowing that every single day could possibly be the last one. It's drawing pages after pages in a productive evening while drinking champagne and discussing philosophy with people I newly met. It’s my dad running away from me, leaving me in the last childhood memory that I have of feeling safe. It's turning my back on my dad and walking towards the unknown as he sheds the first tear at the airport.
Passion is being alone, at 4 in the morning, writing about the word passion and what it means to me. It’s tearful, angry but sweet. It's spontaneous and scary. It's obsessive and a little insane. It’s the residual that persists through years of denial, conflict and resolution to, at last, end up as fond memories.