For me, life has always been about passion. Finding it and letting it wrap itself around your neck until it's dragging you to the ends of the earth, or wherever it wants to take you. Living it. When I was little, my mom told us to ask God to help us find our purpose in life, and as I've grown older, I've taken it into my own hands to try to find my purpose by following the things that ignite me. Passion and purpose are synonymous in my mind, because they give value to seemingly blank human lives. Passion has always been my map to finding my future and my unique humanity.
Every single one of the moments that I'd deem crucial in shaping who I am is one that is colored with an all-encompassing infatuation; one where both my heart and my mind were soaked in inextinguishable flames. Those are the moments that made me. The moments I cling to in every identity crisis — major or minor — because they pat my back and tell me that it will be okay and I will be okay. Those impassioned moments of my life dug the path that led me to where I am.
And now I'm here. Somehow, I ended up here.
Standing here, I seem to have lost my passion.
It's not like I've never lost a passion before. My life thus far has been a revolving door of hobbies that consume me for a period of time. Interests that shift with an unnaturally rapid aggression, bouncing from topic to topic with an unfocused ease. Fashion to singing to acting to psychology to anthropology to writing to whatever else managed to consume my thoughts for any period of time.
SEE ALSO: To The Coach That Killed My Passion
But this is different. This isn't losing a passion, this is losing my passion. And for someone who is a junkie for the feeling of complete and considerable passion, the way those endorphins make your body feel fully alive and totally numb simultaneously, it's tough not knowing where, or even how, to get your fix. It is soul crushingly difficult to look for directions when you've lost the map.
