Boring, Bored, or None of the Above

I am a person, believe it or not, who has, in instances, been accused of being boring. My staid exterior, my introverted personality, and my overall behind-the-scenes attitude lends itself to that I guess. I'm a person who appreciates thoughtfulness and tradition, and some might say I can be predictable. Often this assumption of a boring attitude translates itself into a passionless, emotionless one. The reality is I am deeply moved by the responsibilities of morality, ethics, being an example, and fulfilling my desires and dreams. I guess that's a boring answer, which doesn't much prove my point; so let me put it in a more simple example. I'm more passionate about literature than some people are about their very lives. And the best part--books aren't the thing I'm most passionate about. But since I've started on this path I might as well continue down the road and see if it explains anything.

Feeling so deeply is hard to keep up--no matter what it is that drives that passion. This summer I'm lucky enough to be immersed in the study of literature all the way from the early 20th C to present day, and still there are days where I find myself wanting to just sit and watch World Cup games all day. A day every now and then, sure I understand that, but when it persists I've got to ask--am I really getting bored with this? Don't get me wrong, I'm having a great time, tons of fun. But sometimes it feels like the fire is out.

With the sun shining outside and the temperature rising, I wonder if I lose myself, become complacent and forget to add fuel to the flame. And when that's gone, you can enjoy yourself all you want, but there's still a spot of cold darkness the sun can't reach. And when boredom sets in, the rest of your life burns out pretty swiftly leaving you to sit in a pile of your own ash blown, indifferently, by the wind's desire. And so it is, sometimes, where I am caught at the brink of the charcoal grey edges of life, before the charred smell of my dreams, like smelling salts, wake me out of my self-indulgent slothfulness. Just what I needed, before a blast of cold air blows out the last ember and throws me over the edge. Now the joy of collecting the grass, leaves and sticks to build from the ashes anew. Smoldering smoke, then a burst of yellow flame and the passion is reborn. I find again not just the fun, but the joy and excitement of building a life of passion. Heaving logs now, felling trees to find more fuel, insatiable a bonfire storms in front of me; towering, swirling oranges and reds, heat that stings my skin. I've created this, I've lived this; needing more, wanting more, growing larger, wilder.

Am I boring? Am I bored? I choose none of the above. I've a passion, rains and storms may dampen the flame, but the embers never die. I am always building always growing. I am creating a wildfire, and I am ready to let it run loose. It's been hidden, but I will open it to the world, I will let it engulf the surrounding forest. So pick up your tinder, your sticks and logs. Get ready and find the freedom and courage to throw your lives to the fire, to add your storied flames to the passion's unquenchable madness.