I wish I had kept this unfinished painting, I think it looks better half rubbed out than anything I could have planned to do on purpose. Which is how life works often, don't you think? You don't really understand what something is worth to you until long after it's done with, and some of the oddest things become some of the most important or useful or beloved. Sometimes some of the oddest people.
I was reading something about passion, I can't remember for the life of me who or where, that suggested passion is not something we follow, it's not something we even can follow. It's something that grows in us as we stick with the things we like. No grand scheme or plan or purpose, just do something, make it something you like, and from that passion will flourish and make little passion babies that take over the known universe.
It's not a new idea and, sure as Io's volcanic ejecta produces a (large!) plasma torus, not a sexy one. Sticking with the things you quite like until you learn to love them just doesn't ring anyone's bells. It never rang mine. Though it should. It makes passion and bliss and any such synonymous desires available to absolutely everyone.
I'm not surprised I didn't get it for so long. I'm rubbish at growing anything. And I don't actually kill hydrangeas, truth be told. I just completely and utterly neglect them.