consumed - two doors

I have passions with very little or no expression. It's hard to deal with sometimes, these bottled convictions.

I am afflicted by what gypsies call 'Duende' - which is the spirit that lives inside music and can tear your heart out of your chest. That's the thing you feel when you listen to music and it sounds too beautiful or too rich to be able to exist without a soul... because it has a soul, called Duende. I have been blessed and cursed with a sensitivity to the soul of music. Blessed, because nothing is more freeing than a song playing and the window rolled down. Blessed because without that spirit, my world would be less dynamic, less emotional, less interesting. Music makes my mind shut up for a second, and brings me to a place of beauty. But I am cursed to feel the soul of music because I have to expression of it, no way to free this spirit from my own chest. I cannot sing, cannot play an instrument, cannot dance. There is an art to each of these aspects of music that I cannot master, I cannot hardly invest myself in. I sing in the shower, as loud as I can when I am alone, just to pour a dribble of Duende out of me before I explode with it. It's like shaking a bottle of soda, and then opening it just enough to let the carbonation leak out, then closing it and shaking it again. I am filled to combustion with the soul of music.

And not only Duende fills me. I have a passion for Art, for painting and drawing and sculpting and tagging and tattooing and splashing my heart out into the world. I dream of art pieces, I see them in my mind just waiting like sails for the right winds. I walk into an art store and nearly cry, I want it all, my heart cries out for the gesso and the wire and the drafting pencils. I see a Sharpie and I might burst with the doodles that could escape me if I had that Sharpie in hand. It's almost more than I can bare, to smell charcoal on someone's hands, or to feel paper thick as skin. I wander the aisles like Alice in her Wonderland.

And more. I contain passions for Writing, for the novels I read and the novels I want to write. For the Poetry I fall in love with, and the words and verses that come to me. I have the deperate need to travel, see the world in all its splendor and obscenity. I hold within me the conviction that Massage can change the world, that not only am I destined to heal others, but also to heal myself. That I see the world in a way that no one else seems to see...

And yet, here I sit, praying for ways to fulfill these passions, to let the burning and aching desires of my spirit set something aflame. I waste so much time... and it sickens me, literally. I have no time to hold this in anymore, the clock is up, and I must either exert myself to live a mundane life, or I can set free these chained souls and follow them elsewhere. I suppose the tigers and dragons must be loosed sometime. Do I wait until they break free of their own will, or do I find the shining key and unlock them myself? It's like choosing between a violent outburst of passion, or giving in to the passions willingly. I dont know if surrender is door 1 or 2 at this point...