Passion; Dispassion

Over the past week, someone asked me: 'What are your passions?"

I thought about it. And realised that I don't really know. Or, more accurately, it may be more honest to admit to having nothing that I'm really passionate about. Nothing, I would say, that lies at the core of my being. Nothing that drives me forward. Nothing that I dream about. Nothing that I really want to happen. Nothing that I crave or absolutely need.

I struggled and said, "I don't really have any passions."

The someone said, "Hmm. So you're ... a happy-go-lucky person."

I eagerly nodded.

I guess I do appear to be happy-go-lucky, to be an 'Anything Goes' kinda person, at least to some people. And maybe I am.

Why then do I feel stagnant? Why then do I feel guilty about lacking passion?

Maybe, in part, it's the books I've been reading: a) The Kite Runner, on regret, and b) The Longest Journey, about Rickie Elliott, 'a sensitive and intelligent young man ... who giv(es) up his hopes and values for those of the conventional world, ... sinks into a world of petty conformity and bitter disappointments."

Perhaps, I'm passionate about dispassion, about a sense of balance, about being clinical, about being on both the one hand and the other hand, about being safe and not letting anything veer out of control because of passion. Which means I don't move 'forward' in any direction, and just stay in the safe, dispassionate, and soul-less centre?

Which means that I might just crave something: security.

*Ponders*