This passion is something that can be torn, that can be ripped into rags, that can split and break and be reduced to tiny tatters. I picture passion as a bit of silk, a sheet, perhaps or a bit of lingerie. It is something to be cherished, to be stroked and enjoyed not something to be ripped to pieces like yesterday’s newspaper for the gerbil cage.
A passion can be secreted in the pocket of your dressing gown, revealed to only the chosen few, or waved over your head if you’re feeling public about it. A passion can be wound round your heart, nestled between your breasts, draped across your lap.
A passion should be treated with respect – not balled up and destroyed.