Passion was destructive in my eyes. Something that made sane people act out, as if they were without an extra thought in their head; I've seen the throes of passion be burnt out entirely through the awning of life's realities.
Life sometimes was just wholly incomplete, and the sooner people relinquish the desire to have the burning passion of fiction, would they be happier. These silly ideals, meant nothing if life wouldn't allow it. Why commit yourself to a life of suffering for those brief moments of burning passion?
