“The night is my companion, and solitude my guide…….my body aches to breathe your breathe, your words keep me alive…”
“And it is all I ever feel, like nothing good is ever real…..”
There are few things in life quite so painful as not feeling worthy of the person that you love.
He said, “You’re the strongest person I know.”
I said, “I feel so very weak.”
He said, “You only feel this way because you are simultaneously cocky and meek.”
“I’m waking up; I feel it in my bones……Welcome to the New Age.”
“But inside the same old skin, everything has changed…”
There are several times in our lives when we find ourselves at a crossroads, on the cusp of of something new and potentially life-altering. It is in those moments that we realize how far we’ve come, how much farther we’ve left to go, and how time and experience has already changed us.
It’s a sad fact that nothing inspires an artist more than melancholy. For the writer, sadness means turning to the only true solace we know: the words that we can weave together. We litter pages with words that depict tragedy, sorrow, loss and longing, words to be explored and consumed by readers. For those whom have felt that hurt or anything resembling it, the words are ravenously consumed, even as they bring tears to the eyes and bitter memories rushing to the surface of the mind. For those who have been spared such wounds, the words are a labyrinth to be explored with curiosity and (sometimes) even envy at another’s suffering, and for the “depth” that it gives them. What it is that compels us to turn anguish into art? What is is about the human species, that we are forever seeking beauty in pain?