May 17, 2007

What is Passion?

Romance has always eluded me, at least in the stero-typical sense of the word. I never had dates pick me up with a flaming torch of blood red roses in their hands and whisk me off for some fantastic evening I'll never forget.

But, I have felt passion. Undeniable, throbbing passion.

When I was 14, I met my first love. We lived in townhouses, his being across the way from mine. He came out one day as I idly kicked a soccer ball against the wall at the end of the courtyard. One stray kick and the ball went whizzing past my head. He kicked it back from me, and from that moment on, we were inseperable. I lost my virginity to him that year and it wasn't a pleasant experience. I cried through the whole thing and to this day I have no idea why.

That first year was absolute and complete head over heels. I was addicted to him as he was to me. We talked and planned of our future together, night after night, day after day. But, after that first year, my love quickly became a nightmare. Prone to fits of rage, my teenage boyfriend would lash out, throwing things at me, eventually resorting to slapping and kicking. He was, by far, the biggest boy in school. As a sophomore in our high school he stood six foot two and was easily over 200 pounds. Naturally, nobody messed with him and nobody messed with me either, for fear of having their heart ripped out by my gorilla of a boyfriend.

Fast forward to almost four years later, and it ended. Just as quickly as it began, the fire he had set off in my heart that day singed out. I loved him irrevocably one minute, the next, I couldn't stand the sight of him. I was tired of being abused (though I didn't know that I was at the time) and I was tired of hiding. Hiding bruises form everyone else and hiding who I really was from him.

In between, I had a few relationships, but nothing worth mentioning. Then, I met my ex-husband. A man that could move on the dance floor and make my heart skip a beat when he spoke to me in spanish. He was Puerto Rican and came from a huge family. Again, I loved him unconditionally, thruthfully. And as with my first "love" there was no romance, no soft wooing in the moonlight, just a burning below the surface that didn't seem to need any help fanning to life. And, as with my first "love", he became nasty. This vicious pattern kept repeating itself in my life, one over the other, rolling into thick masses of black clouds that I couldn't seem to find my way out of.

With both, I knew some sort of passion. Passion that had us tearing and ripping into each other's clothes like the apocalypse was drawing near. But, was it passion or lust? And what was the difference? Was this "passion" I was feeling a sign of my love for them, or a silly superficial lust that came as fast and as hard as it would surely die?

Maybe so. One thing I do know is that since, I have felt real passion. Not the kind you feel when there's a hot guy across the room eyeing you down. I'm talking about the kind where you listen to someone talk and fight the urge to bring them in close. Not just because of their physical presence, but because of who they are, the very air around them whirring in a hurricane, sucking you in and up.

Here's my question, have you ever felt that way about someone and can honestly say it's not just a physical reaction??......That there has been something more beneath the surface?....Not only setting your nerve endings on fire, but intoxicating your mind as well? Have you ever felt drunk while speaking with someone and not had a lick to drink?? Why do you think you reacted this way? Do you think there could've been something in the air? Something making you react that way besides appearance?

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