noun: a very powerful feeling, for example of sexual attraction, love, hate, anger or other emotion; an extreme interest in or wish for doing something, such as a hobby, activity, etc.
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Passion is a personal thing: whether or not we’re talking about the amorous kind. What evokes uncontrollable passion in one person leaves another cold. It’s one of the greatest dangers we face, and one of the most powerful tools at our disposal…
We seem to have a rather confusing outlook on passion as a society. We’re fascinated – almost mesmerised – by it. Much like a naked flame, our eyes are inexorably drawn to passion. I don’t need to tell you that sex sells, and the sheer volume of crime dramas and documentaries paint a far clearer picture of our interest in the subject than I ever could. We’d all like to think that we’d be capable of anything if we cared enough, yet we also like to believe there’s a line we wouldn’t cross. Both beliefs are held in tandem, competing for dominance in every hypothetical scenario. But the flames of passion spread far beyond sex and violence…
Do you like football? The vast majority of people I’ve encountered will answer that question emphatically – whatever their answer may be. It’s almost a marmite thing. And it evokes passion. The main reason I cite football as an example, however, is that a significant portion of those who would emphaticly cry “no, I hate football!” will make a point of going out to watch the world cup. It’s the same game. What makes it seem different?
When I’ve asked people about this, they usually attribute their difference of opinion to the atmosphere. Last I checked, the atmosphere was nitrogen and oxygen, with a smidge of argon and other gases, whether or not there’s a world cup on… A friend of mine made an interesting point on the subject: he said that everyone in the country who likes football is on the same side for a change. That everyone’s national pride and love of football come together. Even in the cold light of day I believe the point has merit, but truthfully his speech was so impassioned that I’d have been half convinced if he’d said “the football fairies come out during the world cup and make everyone love it”!
An impassioned plea can move even the most stubborn of individuals to reassess their point of view. How can it be so difficult to deny a child their whim, or so compelling to comfort someone in distress? The reason, I believe, is a simple one. Empathy. When we encounter someone experiencing intense feelings, we feel some of their emotion with them, and emotion is what compels us to take almost every action in our lives. Why else would we find impassioned pleas so much more compelling than calm, collected ones?
Master Yoda teaches us – or rather, he teaches Luke Skywalker – that you must learn control. But how are we expected to control ourselves when in the throes of passion? Faced with such burning intensity, we are almost at the mercy of our feelings. Passion strips us of our self-control. That’s why it’s dangerous. There are even provisions in law for this: a crime of passion will invariably carry a lesser sentence than if the same offence were premeditated. While allowing for individual circumstances seems perfectly reasonable and moral, I do wonder at the wisdom of granting tacit approval for such behaviour, even when the individual is clearly impassioned…
A staggeringly high percentage of these crimes of passion involve lovers harming each other. Ironic that we still call them “lovers” when the relationship has degenerated to such a point, as there’s clearly no love involved anymore. Desire, yes. And jealousy. Feelings of entitlement, of ownership, of possession. It’s far from the Jedi way…
Passion is intense, to the point of being all-consuming. There is, understandably, a strong association between passion and fire. They both burn, too hot and too bright to be ignored. They both consume everything around them until they’ve nothing left to consume. What became of their unbearable light and heat? Both fire and passion leave nothing but charred remains and embers in their wake. Their original form – and everything they touched – is utterly unrecognisable. At the risk of (nearly) quoting Keyser Soze: they’re gone.
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