Passion, it lies in all of us, sleeping... waiting... and though unwanted... unbidden... it will stir... open its jaws and howl. It speaks to us... guides us... passion rules us all, and we obey. What other choice do we have? Passion is the source of our finest moments. The joy of love... the clarity of hatred... and the ecstasy of grief. It hurts sometimes more than we can bear. If we could live without passion maybe we'd know some kind of peace... but we would be hollow... Empty rooms shuttered and dank. Without passion we'd be truly dead.
How it toys with us, makes utter fools of us. Flogs, whips and spanks us. Listen to the voices of the unloved as they surge and retreat in the night. Whispered in empty rooms and lonely beds, the hunger of love unattained, rushing through our fingers, unstoppable, fleeting, gone. And yet, when we touch this love it burns us with its bright flame, it punishes and consumes. And yet we must have it. It rules us. Uses. Abuses. Misuses. And yet, why do we always crawl back for more?