Once upon a time, when the earth was new, there lived two sisters – Love and Hate. The moon gave them life and they made their home by the sea, watching the world as it grew around them. The sisters were mirror images of each other. Where Love’s hair was long and blonde, Hate’s short locks were dark as midnight. Hate’s striking eyes shone a brilliant blue, and Love’s soft-brown irises conveyed kindness and understanding to all they looked upon. The sisters were known far and wide to be the moon’s favorite creations.
One day while playing on the beach, the sisters met someone new. A boy named Hope. Hope was fickle with his affection and each sister began to feel strongly for him, but in the end, Hope was drawn only to Love. Love and Hate began to drift apart and Hate took to walking on the beach alone. On this faithful day, Hate came upon a sight that stopped her dead in her tracks. Love and Hope were wrapped in an embrace. Hate became so enraged that she grabbed a shell from the sea and began to slice Hope with gashes deep enough to split the flesh. In her rage, she turned on Love but Hope threw himself in front of Love, ensuring the shell cast a fatal blow across his neck. Crazed with grief, Love grabbed the shell and sliced her own throat, knowing she could never live without Love. The two lay dying at Hate’s feet – what had she done? She cried to the moon for help, but the moon did not answer and Love and Hope bled into the ocean.
Now Hate was alone. Without her sister. Without her love. She became bitter and unkind, blaming Love and Hope for her misery. She began searching the earth for anything left of them. From time to time she would happen upon their spirit, their remnants, and she would do everything in her power to ensure they never breathed life again. To this day, Hate roams the earth seeking her vengeance. She tries and tries and will never give up…
But what she will never understand is that Hate cannot kill Love, as long as Hope is there to protect it.
Love and Hate
There was a time when I thought love was the most powerful emotion one could experience. I still feel this way, that it is truly a force tearing its way through the human race, pulling us apart and pushing us back together at its will. Though, lately, I see love as a delicate and beautiful thing who has a lover herself and his name is passion. Love is steady, a heartbeat of comfort. Passion is what pushes love forward. Passion is what moves people out of their own little worlds. Only when someone is truly passionate about a cause can they become involved. Only when someone is passionate about their work, will they achieve the level of success they wish. Passion is erratic and moves in unexplained patterns, pulling love along for the ride.
I think passion and love are often confused, especially between a man and a woman. Love is built over time; again, a steady heartbeat you can set the rhythm of your life to. But passion is something entirely different. Now, I’m not talking about lust. Lust is the immediate desire to intimately know someone; a knee-jerk reaction of a chemical shift in our brains when our prehistoric anatomy finds another to reproduce with. Passion builds on itself, growing and shifting over time the more you know a person. The more you recognize their mind and their desires and how they match your own. Passion can make your body tingle and your mind wander to places you never meant for it to go.
Passion between a man and woman may not always lead to love and it doesn’t have to; he can stand alone confident in his nature and he is strong enough to keep two people bonded together. But by God you cannot love someone without passion. Without passion, love is meek and may or may not be able to sustain itself indefinitely. I love you. What does that even mean if there isn’t any passion to back it up? Nothing. It means nothing. It means we have a life here, we own things together, we have a routine. It doesn’t have anything to do with happiness or satisfaction and if you say you don’t want those things either you’re lying to me or you’ve been lying to yourself for a long time. For your sake, I hope you’re just lying to me.
I have been told that my ability to feel passion is greater than most, and I am inclined to agree. When I want something, when I believe in something, when something moves me…and I mean to my core, I will have it. I will move heaven and earth until they crash together; until the raging fire inside of me has been tamed and only the embers remain, though they threaten to ignite at any moment. I’m often scolded for this in my life, by those around me who in fact lack passion for anything and don’t know how to categorize the emotion when they come across it. I used to feel bad, feel like I was the one who had something wrong with her, but you know what? Fuck that and fuck you. As my granny said, “If you can’t take this heat, baby – get your ass out of my kitchen.”
Originally published: 2/1/2013