All things to be passionate about are subjective

It’s interesting how strongly we rely on emotion to drive us in certain times; yet we just as equally don’t trust those same emotions to help us choose in other times.

I am led by logic.  I admit it.  I prefer being logic based because it helps me when I have to decide stuff.  And, I have to decide stuff quite often.  That doesn’t mean that logic is the first thing to slap me in the face when I’m faced with a decision.  It’s almost always an emotion that I feel.  I just wait before I reply or decide.  It’s been quite a long time that I’ve spent building that up as a skill.  It’s the difference between being reactionary and ….well, not being reactionary.

I have a passion for photography and I had a studio at one point.  It made me aware that not all people are going to like what I create.  And that is Okay; it would be perfectly overwhelming if everyone loved what you create.  It would also be just plain odd.

I think when you create something you love – anything really – you have to decide if you’re willing to hear other opinions on your creation.  That is not easy.  But, when you find that loyal crowd who you’ve really spoken to in a personal way through your creation, I think it really makes an impact on you.  Knowing that you helped make someone happy or allowed them to see your perspective for an instant is really what makes sharing your creation worthwhile.

Maybe it’s not that I’m “led” by logic but that I am comfortable relying on it more.  My emotional/passionate side changes its mind too darn often and judges too quickly based on how something makes me feel.  As I write, I find that it is almost completely opposite.  I rely 100% on emotion rather than logic.  Maybe that’s part of why I enjoy it so much.

Speaking of sharing something …..I recently did an interview for an author website.  It asked me to write a storyline based on four words:  Man, Woman, Airport, Darkness .  I had way too much fun doing this.  I was surprised how quickly I formed an image in my head and found a little story.

Here it is:

It was their first real house. They usually slept in complete darkness because their only light source was from a candle they carried that burnt out well before morning. They heard the sound of another plane flying overhead as they glanced out the window at the airport across the street. The sound of the planes had grown to be a warm and reassuring reminder of their freedom and all the new possibility in their lives. The man and woman slept in the same bedroom, but in different makeshift beds as they were brother and sister. This had been their home for the last few weeks, ever since they were freed from their home country where life was far more unfair than it should ever have to be. Now they spent their days searching for their parents from this meager home that they loved – not for what it was, but for what it represented.

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