“Of passion”

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“Of passion”

Longing for the moments of life when it was {is} passion,
extreme and pure
only
and nothing else.
No in betweens or just breathing
No just existing
No dragging
No monotonous tasks

For the times of not being able to function
Of crying, passion
Of passion

Just a continuous stream of those.
Like putting a playlist on repeat.
I’d not be able to breathe
or move
And it would be so unbearably overwhelming
and painfully beautiful
and exhaustingly cathartic.

Even just the moments when I thought it was too much, that I couldn’t bear it or live it or be it.
Even just a stream of that.
(Black without white, hot without cold, pain without pleasure, living without dying; they say.)
I’d be living, extremely.

Like a reminder on my calendar. “Hey, you’re alive.”

R   e   l    e   a   s   e
I would try and breathe
through the stream of moments
but be unsuccessful.
And that would be overwhelming and beautiful and cathartic.

In fact, I’d die.

But then I’d go to heaven, and it would continue, but only better.

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