This question? Didn’t even make me pause. Damn — I am the passion. The love. The obsession. Yeah, it might sound like I’m full of myself. But if you’ve read me, you know it’s just the truth.

I’m passionate about everything I am and everything I feel. Everything I do. I don’t do things halfway. If I love, I love like it’s all or nothing. If I desire, it devours me whole. If I create, I throw myself into it like it’s the only thing that matters.

Writing? It’s not a hobby — it’s my lifeblood, my way to stay creative. Creativity means curiosity — and curiosity means being alive. Questioning, feeling, analyzing. Saying what I can’t always say out loud. Staying real with myself.

Nature? I don’t just love it — I’m obsessed. The sun rises whether you’re ready or not. Waves crash unapologetically. Life moves on its own terms. That grounds me. It reminds me that control is mostly an illusion.

People read my words and assume they mostly come from pain. They see hunger, obsession, surrender, sharp edges, and whisper trauma. Some call it “too lusty,” like desire needs to be tamed or sanitized.

But let’s get this straight: I’m not writing from my wounds. I’m not here to heal. I’m not broken. Yes, my writing can be haunting — but that’s passion, not pain. I create art from feeling. From hunger. From desire.

And yes — I’m passionate about my lust, too. Love without lust? Not even an option — not my kind of story. So yeah, no thanks.

I want both tenderness and ache, depth and fire. The pull between devotion and destruction, surrender and survival. That’s where I live. That’s where I’m alive.

Hurt, haunt, and everything we feel — that’s just being human. Life throws shit at all of us. Some moments are traumatic. But not everything is. Not every messy love, complicated connection, or broken ending equals being broken.

This modern world love to slap labels ( depression, trauma, anxiety ) as if every feeling needs a name and a reason. Bullshit.

We’re just living, loving, messing up, and feeling deeply. That’s life. And I refuse to let anyone shrink my hunger or my story into some tired trauma narrative.

What lives inside me is passion. Wild passion for love, art, and feeling fully. The constant pull between surrender and survival, devotion and destruction, desire and discipline.

Men have entered my mind, touched places few ever find, left turbulence behind. Some I touched when I shouldn’t have. Some I never touched at all — but they live through my art, not in my heart.

They left fingerprints on my hunger, not scars on my soul. They can’t break me. They feed my creativity, not my pain. Their presence/absence made me more creative and more passionate. Seriously, I’m not kidding.

I carry passion for all of it: for who I am, for memories, for haunting unfinished moments, for intensity that never landed. Men who came deep and left didn’t damage me. Sure, they left marks. But, whether I carry those marks? That’s my choice. They never shattered anything. This is simply how my desire works.

I have long learned to burn and bloom with the same intensity.

My passion lives in my words. Words thrill me — they’re my aphrodisiac. They give my passion a voice. The love inside me is vibrant. The ache inside me is alive. I’ve given it a home — a place where I can breathe, feel, and tell my truth.

Desire isn’t suffering. Surrender isn’t weakness.

I crave intensity — not because I was hurt, but because I am built for it.

I live on edges — not because I fell, but because that’s where I feel most alive as hell.

This space? It’s not a healing diary. It’s my passion sanctuary.

And no — I’m not that dumbass bitch who can’t tell passion from fantasy or hunger from reality. But yeah, I’m also that dumbass bitch who still chases the rollercoaster in connection when maybe I should choose calm. Calm is boring. But boring is a luxury. Ugh, see my contradictions?

The truth? Calm isn’t where my fire lives. My hunger stays wild on the edge. And what fuels me — always — is passion.

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