File under: cry-me-a-river style thoughts
“What are your passions?” turns out to be a more elucidating question than you would imagine.
With every scar I feel deeper in this fibrous husk. I am classically (perhaps even detrimentally) passionate. It’s something I’ve always enjoyed about being me – times weren’t always good, but they were unfailingly interesting – so it is disconcerting to feel less vital. What to do about that? How do I once again appreciate the world, like a hand, freshly freed from its cast?