Oliver and I once talked about passion for work. What does it mean, exactly? I asked. He couldn't explain it himself.

And lives revolve around the vague and unpinnable word passion.

I remember telling him about Franz Kafka, and what I've read in some introductory pages before Metamorpohoses. Franz Kafka's passion for writing was was so strong that it overrode all other desires in his life. But at the same time, he was scared of letting himself competely to it because he believed that it will leave nothing else for him.
I don't know how else to make it concrete to people who don't immediately understand.

I tell you what I told Marj last night, his passion is both enviable and pitiable. It's knowing with certainty what you're meant to do, but it's frightening to have because you're nothing outside of it. One good thing about being spread too thin is that you know you'll still survive if a leg is cut off, or if an eye is poked out.

In a study somewhere, it said that poets die earlier than all writers; but most writers in general die early rather than those with other occupations and preoccupations. Poets, writers and artists feel more intensely than others, and it takes too much toll on their psychological well being.
Emo is not joke, really.

And to choose writing and art, it's to choose to open yourself up more to that deep cesspool of emotions that leads you to ecstatic highs, dismal crevasses and all all else in between.

Writing is escape, but at the same time it's plunging deeper into where you are. More and more you see the dialectic everywhere, tensions that keep everything apart and everything bound together.

Because I feel severely unhappy. And I find that the option to create something is open. Maybe in the future, I might even see it as the point. Should I take my particular unhappiness and attempt to make it universal? And give birth to a child that stands through human time, a comment on the human situation?