Intense people die young

I've always been attracted to intense
people. The crazy, the creative, the
drug addicted. They are more fun, 
they are more alive, they are more
real. 

But they die young. 

Parts of me wants to save them. 
Parts of me know that it can't 
happen. Intense people give
it all in. If they survive, 
something magical comes out
on the other side. Like the
butterfly struggling out of
the cocoon, the struggle 
is needed, if not the 
butterfly couldn't fly. 

It's still sad. 

While I'm browsing, once
again, hackers's news, I 
feel lifeless. Why am I 
wasting time like that? 

Why am I browsing the web 
in search for a tiny speck
of luke warm random 
entertainment? Meanwhile, 
she's living her life to
the fullest, without 
compromise, jumping head 
first toward her death. 

Why do it half measure
when there is nothing 
to hold you back? Why 
restrain yourself to 
live another day, if
there is nothing to 
look forward to?

I've met so many of 
these intense people, 
and it makes me feel
inadequate. I praise
their passion, meanwhile
I wonder how many calories
there is in the cookie 
I am about to eat. 

What would it mean to
live to my full passion?

When my best friend died, 
I was at the ashram, here. 
I vowed to continue my life
as passionately as possible
to honor his own passionate 
life. I don't know what it 
means to live my life 
passionately. 

When I was with her, I felt
it, that intensity, that
passion, that potential. 
I could have run with her
to my death. Overdose
after a night of passion, 
snuggled, loving, forever,
dead, together. One last 
passionate run at life... 

And as pointless it may
sounds, it somehow have
more poetry to it. What's
the alternative, die old,
in a retirement home, alone
and sad?

My friend's father jumped
off the third floor. An 
artist his whole life, 
he didn't want to prolong
a life not worth living. 

Meanwhile, I stay on the
shore, helpless, scared
to live my life fully, 
while the passionate ones
all leave one after the 
other.