The pain of a writer is your entertainment. Whether you listen to music or read a book, you are consuming the outpouring of pain from a heart that has been crucified. A heart that has been crucified on the flame of creativity and heartbreak.
You are inhaling the essence of the fracturing soul to remember what it even feels like to be alive in the realm of eternity. Your mind has become chained to the plastic and all you desire is the glitter. You listen to meaningful music or read a deep novel to escape the quickly deteriorating interior of your consciousness. When there is no beauty, there is no life. This is only realized as someone existentially leaps from stone to stone hoping to avoid the impending collapse of their worldview and motivation for life itself.
What people are living for in the end is the momentary bliss that comes only rarely in their otherwise monotonous existence. Outside of someone’s normal routine when they meet someone who changes the trajectory of their life, whether professional or personal, those are the most common points of humanity. Our lives can be reduced to the relationships that we have with the people we care about. Who do we want to see before we are about to freefall into the darkness of eternity?
To write is to feel pain, and to never move on. There is no end to the suffering of the soul, the twisting of the story, the hope of the future. When you realize that at one point you had reached the height of joy, there is no comparison in material success that can even touch when you reached into heaven for just a glimpse. Anyone who makes the choice to become a writer is lying to themselves, it is not a choice to make. Writers are compelled out of their own preservation of existence to put out more work, hoping people read it and understand. They only want to be understood behind the veil of their words, it is never directly. To write directly would not explain the feeling, it would not be sufficient. Dostoevsky wrote in the most complex way possible, yet he is widely read and many have a conception of what he expressed. Nobody can fully understand the work of a writer, but they can get momentary glimpses behind the veil that reveals the life experiences of the author. Melancholy always finds those who suffer, whether on the velvet couch of the Victorians or the plastic chair of today. To feel is the greatest blessing that humanity has received, wrapped in the package of a curse.
