The Crescent

In Defense of Passion

April 5, 2013

Life is stifling, squeezes and wrings the passion and emotion and inventive energy from a person, demanding the continual transformation from the creative, imaginative, idealistic state of youth into a machine-like adulthood. When young, one may dream lofty dreams and think lofty thoughts, may experiment and explore and expand the limits of existence. When older, one must produce, perform, on demand. Each day is a little more mechanical; if one cannot perform 100 times in 100 for an employer, it’d better be 99.

What space does such a life reserve for expression? What possible outlet for the constant longing and writhing of the heart as it plots and plans for grand adventures of love and loss and heroism? Regardless of what scientific minds may claim, humanity is, at the most essential level, transcendent and imbibes transcendent bits of the world every day. The most basic human instinct is not shelter, or food, or reproduction, but instead to contribute to the collective artistry of life, to somehow embody and expel a fraction of the beautiful life-breath of humanity.

One cannot fashion cosmic elegance sitting at a desk. One cannot be an artist of the beautiful filing papers. Each human needs, desperately, a method by which he expresses, for there is nothing as pleasing or as good as a physical, kinetic, tactile embodiment of one’s heart and soul. Again, the claims of the scientist, of synapses and natural attractions and pleasing color combinations are dashed to the wind; a painting fascinates not because the palette of color triggers a wild desire to hunt and gather, but because that painting offers a rare opportunity to step into another reality, to see the dynamic and unstatic world through the eyes of another.

Seize a little of all the universe offers. Life is so much more than work and achievement. Beauty is not constrained by schedule and guideline. To claim as such, to claim life is withdrawn and austere, a minimalist representation of something greater, is an insult and a terrible mistake, for life escapes all things and all thoughts. A painting, a poem, any work of art is not merely a physical thing, fettered by physical limits of space and dimension, but is fluid and infinite, a dream captured and sandwiched between a moment and a heart. To express oneself is to mark the universe, to validate one’s own existence. Do something beautiful. Be something beautiful.

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