On a lack of passion.

There was a time in my life when I felt like fire. I needed to get out and consume, to devour everything in my path and leave ashes in my wake. I wanted to have all of the fun, meet all of the people, do all of the things. And I did have fun (from what I remember). I met some incredible people. I've forgotten more stories than some will ever acquire. I also inflicted a fair amount of collateral damage, both physical and emotional, to the people and places in my life.

But it's quiet now. I can't really put a finger on what broke me. Maybe it was my dad, maybe it was trying to run a business long before I was ready. Maybe it was the failed marriage, or the substance problem I've cultivated in recent years. Maybe it's just age. But whatever it is, I don't have that spark I remember having. I've lost the desire to put myself out there because I know how exhausting it is. Even new things I learn are just systems I already know in different contexts and combinations.

Now, I don't want you guys to think this is some kind of cry for help. I'm actually quite content, if a little bored. My life is easy and pleasant. The few times I do get out of the house, I relish greatly. Things that used to outrage me, that would blind me with fury, now just induce a calm sadness or mild irritation.

But is this the way it's supposed to be? Am I just this now? Will there be no more bursts of furious, crazy passion? This is what makes me uneasy; the question of whether or not this quiet life is what is to span the rest of my days. And if it is not, what must I do to recapture it? Will I remember what it's like?