(Written March 16th, 2011 / Note: the termlifesensitivewas added, and is a (hopefully obvious) play on the termforcesensitive“.)

I was reading (actually re-reading) Exile, one of the books of the Legacy era during Jacen Solo’s transformation into Darth Caedus. I found myself thinking of my own situation…

“There was a thought circling the periphery of his awareness. It was something Captain Lavint had sparked into existence, something Wedge had fanned into a live flame. But he couldn’t quite bring it into focus.

Well then, he needed to look more closely.

Captain Lavint thought Jacen used to be a hero. Clearly, if such things were measured by numbers of admirerers, he was now a greater hero than he ever had been, and yet she thought he no longer constituted one. Why? Because he’d passed judgment on her? Perhaps. Maybe it was because the sentence he’d passed on her was one that would’ve broken his father’s heart, or the heart of any smuggler. Perhaps it was because he’d hurt her where she was most vulnerable. It wasn’t necessarily a heroic thing to do, he conceded, but it was fair. So let’s dismiss that for now.

Wedge thought the loss of his sense of humor meant that he’d become a fanatic of some sort. Whether it had or not, Jacen had to admit, it did mark a change in him.”

In reading this, it fanned something of my own into a live flame. I’ve almost said it, in the past and even in my most recent posts, but the essence of one of the victories I take has only been alluded to. ‘Til now.

I am a life-sensitive person. My romanticism, my passions, my spiteful hatred, tumulteous descents, battered love, and more speak to this. This is why I have the capacity to thrive on pain and anger, and why I’ve been tentatively working with joy and happiness (even as my despairing boar sits atop the usually gleeful, downtrodden bullfrog, and even as my hate bites and snarls my loving bear even as the bear embraces it). I am sensitive, and so I feel with intensity, my emotions run high and animate my life. And they guide me towards passion manifest, because they’re its tendrils, reaching out.

I have had moments where I feel like I’m not hurting. This is disassociative from what’s really going on though, escape, numbness. But the pain is there, and it is precious. I’ve been on about it so much, it seems like I’m whinning, and it’s uncomfortable to do that, but what I feel is what I feel, and expression is liberating. I choose expression, openness, but I exercise this power with strength so that expression brings growth, serves my Self, my Passion. I am not always graceful.

My deep hurt at her betrayal and her dishonesty.
My worry for a fellow when reading about his seizure.
My desire, my yearning, to paint with words.
My pleasure and envy at the visual art another has shared.
My resolve to rise.

All of these and far, far more. They are mine and they are precious, they are Passion in so many forms, whispering, guiding, molding, growing, unfurling.

(Written March 16th, 2011)


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