It makes me… me. It’s been with me as long as I can remember. It drew me irresistibly to the mountains, and the sea, and the sky. It made me write compulsively and take pictures like a maniac. It still keeps me at the computer for hours, editing, retouching, adjusting, tweaking a pixel at a time, patiently frantic. It makes my life nothing but extraordinary, it colours the world around me in pastel tones mixed with tongues of fire and tears of lightening. It increases my vibration level, it makes me rise, and sometimes sink. It has made my words spur out faster than the brain could sensor them. It makes me live impulsively, on the edge. It pushes me to take chances and be a dreamer. It once in a while keeps me awake at night, worried and concerned. It leaves me breathless and unable to discard threats disguised as artistic innocence. It must have to do with the French blood flowing through my veins. My dad had it, until the end. A big mouth, strong opinions, intense views of the world, never neutral, major parti pris, always ready for something crazy. And here I am. His portrait. And now it has found a new focus. Its power has been multiplied by a thousand. Its effects are rippling through my body and my soul, its symptoms clear; I don’t eat much, sleep poorly and daydream all the time. My mouth still at times accepts my foot. But in the end, it’s the essence of who I am.
It’s called passion.
And I intend to use it well. I will not wait and see. I will not be reasonable. I will never settle for less. I would not let go. I could not let go. And as someone so aptly – if ever rudely – said it recently, fuck the day, seize the girl. ;-)