Or, passion without love...


I've learned a lot about my personality over the last several years, and one part of it is that I'm deeply passionate about whatever I choose to pursue. I follow the desire of my heart. This expresses itself in various passionate pursuits, but is ultimately a pursuit of love itself. I've never really given it a whole lot of attention, but, underlying this is an undeniable desire to be loved.

I was thinking that passion without love is maybe more disturbing than dispassionate disregard. I don't feel internally dissonant about this, but, still, it disturbs me deeply. It disturbs me, because I'd rather have never found myself in any form of disfunction in the first place.

But, I did. I found myself wanting to utterly destroy my greatest love... or, moreover, all who embodied love.

Such an intense suffering caused by the pain of desire... this desire to fill the hole in my heart. I wanted to consume her body (pleasure), her heart (love), and her soul (anger), in the hopes that it could even just provide a hint of relief for this painful void. An outlet for the treacherous desire, and maybe even just temporary relief for the overwhelming suffering that tore at my heart.

The well developed upper layers of Maslow's Pyramid, turned like a spire, and driven downward into the wounded bottom layers like a problem-solving weapon of self-destruction. The thing I loved most (her love) broken to the point that it was the very thing I most wanted to destroy.

poetry