The Pursuit of Happiness

Multi-coloured, yet pure, linear and lusturous...light passing through the prism, 'Passion', unbound, uncuffed, its very essence is in its unboundedness. Reflected and scattered in all days and deeds, taking forms, shapes, figures and roles on the theatrical stage of life. Its in the shivering strokes of a dying painter, the paint and the brush in delectable combination, yet replete with the pain of what life takes away with itself and the pleasure that death gives him. Passion: it never flows, rather rushes, it floods through the veins, every speck of life rises and rouses in anticipation and in submission to what it reaches out for. The indomitable spirit plays the hungry host, thirsty in the want of servitude towards that freedom, that makes him less a man and more than a human. Lapping up, the very thought of fulfillment of that faraway desire, the seeds of which are still buried in his hands, so much so as to vanish and re-write his lines. A desire that goes beyond the feel of the body. That build monuments for love and cuts hands for matchlesness. The lonely lover's passion he feels in the rising tides of the sea, the toiling farmer's passion in the lush-green field, from the sweat of his brow to the redness of his hands. El-loco-torro.... Torro Torro... It dozes its way, possessed by the blinding passion of the colour of the blood. Every muscle, every stride, each horn made to devour the obstacle, the Aim. And He, the master of elegance, passion flowing through his eyes, to the hands and into the red cloth, that now he waves in concealed amusement, at the futility of the beast's effort and in his surety of the climax. Passion. A passion, it exists in the synchronized rise and fall of heads, in service and in awe of the heaven's above, clinging to the hope that the messiah will rise again. By hands that give alms, heal wounds and slit throats, all in the passion of the religion and spirit. It holds the body and frees the soul, that spends hours, days and months together, putting mind to paper, ink to imagination and life to thoughts. He writes, draws, paints a kaleidoscope. Hunch-backed, wide-eyed , pale-skinned, symptomizing vain, yet seeks and finds the profound. Someone, a trillion revolutions afterwards, still seeks that extra mile in perfection, for perfection, not because they want him to be, but because He is. A passion in which the greatest waste is wasted ability, and the greatest sin is ignorance, a speech without a reason, a writing without a purpose, a walk without a destination and a failure without a fight. Passion finds home in success, but more so in the hypnotism of carrying on and trying....