Passion is a word that is strewed about, mixing brown with other words in the for longing dictionary. I hope that with this should you decide to read, that maybe I can reach someone.
People, Ideas, it’s the conceived of one. We have to play with the animations on the fault that we enjoy it. It simply cannot become work. I gather here today to say that passion about something is as big as you want it to be. The love and heart of it all is inside you, it’s just trapped beyond all these questions. I have witnessed a many battle of words in these forums, and it scars my insides like blackened girders slamming against my testicles.
How many of you have rejoiced over the simplistic freedoms of new animations? Thy belly full, hunger dwindling as sexual need is fulfilled by that blue vixen. From the pinnacle of the mind, we have the passion to create and destroy. Yet I hark to 'ye now, to listen to the heart that says love and create. Words might scatter now, and fearsome as they are they hurt us. Words to be black on white, they do harmful things when placed in order.
How dare we judge our comment. A word is a word, In its self it is what it is. Things, creation, art, it’s about the self. Expression of self. Why do we tell others to be like something? Why be like everybody else? Why be the same? Unity? Boring? No? why can’t we be different, and express self through art and flash. Different; compatibility with interest; on a wave of freedom.
How dare we make us like everybody else? Shaping our comments? Shaping the artist?
How dare we stick our grimy fingers all over someone else’s work! Have we not the splendor of innovation?!
Let us be! A true revolutionist does not look to others for help.
Help…
That seems to be such a strong word. Without the passion to do something, we are bound for failure. Passion has to be fun and exquisite. Workloads are a forlorn anniversary that repeats it's self year after year until we die.
I feel heart, and I try to understand. Lend me you ears so I may understand both battles, both wars, both worlds. We cannot be forgotten like clouds of dust in the avenues that separates from laws. From the heart…however…we can feel, commute…let’s all put this behind us, and do something. I should stop typing before I begin to cry. Not for sorrow, not for sadness…but for the people that are disconnected. I love you all, and we should all say the same thing.
I must take leave, dagger in hand to press against my neck. The movements I know so familiar coming to me, sharp blade restless. Why can’t we have the passion of a knife, sharp and always ready? We could learn a lot about the world by digging a knife into our filthy wrists; my blood can only say so much before it’s thick waters run out. but I hear it’s words, and it tells me…to listen to passion, to the heart, to love and care. I hope that we as a forum can do the same.