Emotions run as deep as oceans, there exists a paradoxical elixir – passion. It is said to be toxic, a perilous potion that ensnares the soul, yet it is this very toxin we crave. We are drawn to its danger, its power to overwhelm our senses, to make us feel alive. For what is art without the intoxication of passion? It is the fire that fuels creation, the storm that stirs the calm.

True art, they say, is born from love that is arduous, like the unrequited yearnings of Calvin, or love that is elusive, slipping through fingers like grains of sand. It thrives in the realm of the impossible, where it is untouched, untainted by reality. For once love is realized, it begins to wither – a flower that blooms only to fade, echoing the sentiments of Eça de Queiroz.

Controversies may swirl like leaves in the wind, but one truth remains steadfast: love that never comes to fruition, that dwells in the land of ‘what could have been’, is held in higher regard than the fiercest of passions. It is a masterpiece never painted, a symphony never composed, the novel never written. It is the ideal, the epitome of desire, forever perfect because it remains forever a dream.

© Beatriz Esmer