Inside is not a heart, but a kaleidoscope.

If I could write lyrics. I would write the most gut wrenching tales where not a single eye was left dry. Of pain that shifts through your being, runs I’ve cold through your veins; creeps itself into your heart and draws all the love and hope and joy out. Leaves it bare and empty as if nothing existed there in the first place. And as it rushes through your veins once again, you feel a sort of release that you can no longer sense, no longer experience the pain. You’ve become numb to the sound of your sadness, and it’s perfectly okay. And then, you swear you will never go back into whatever caused this pain because frankly, once you’ve been to war who wants to go back? Just to be shot at again and broken and torn to bits. As if you were even whole to begin with. Don’t be so foolish as to believe that. If only I could write lyrics.

I think only a true artist will understand me when I say you crave pain. It sounds absurd but it’s so true, pain springs up such great work that I require it nowadays. That horrible sick to your stomach pain has brought me complete comfort these past few days. Where you can just sit and close your eyes and the emptiness creeps from your gut, into your heart.. takes it’s residence there. You continue sitting there and let it it consume your being. From that point, you can do work. You can create what you are meant to create. Although you are numb and empty on every level, you feel alive. It’s a contradiction that only certain people can understand. The pain has been coming in waves. One minute, I am perfectly fine. No better, no worse. Than, it’s a rush of piercing pain. And as crazy as it sounds, I want it to stay. I don’t want it to go away. I want to sink into it and make myself at home. And the nights, the nights are the best. The nights remind me of you, and those memories burn so good. It hurts so damn good.

The time has come for me to come to you and spill my guts all over the internet. It’s late, and I won’t lie I’ve had some wine. But that’s the perfect excuse to just say what ever type of fuckery comes to mind, right? Another thing, I won’t edit this. I won’t read it again. I can’t bear to read my writing over. I’m analytical and meticulous as it is, give me a paper to edit and I will find 100 things wrong with it the 7th time around.

Nothing good comes out of happiness. That doesn’t mean what you think it means. Or it could mean what you think it means, if you think it means what I’m trying to explain it as. You see, you create in agony. In pain, in suffering.. that’s the gold. That dark, abandoned place in your soul where you hide all your secrets and embarrassments and tortures? Yeah, that’s the place you need to go if you want to ever make something worth a damn. If you are content with life, why improve? If you don’t wish to change a single thing about where you are and with who you’re with, then you can die happy. But die, nonetheless, because you aren’t going doing a god damn worthwhile thing for the rest of us. The true test of an artist is how he can communicate his pain. Or hers, I’m not singling out a particular sex. Sometimes, when it gets late at night and I get in these moods where I just feel empty, I play the same song over, and over, and over until the lyrics become engraved in my heart and I become a part of the sheet of music. I blend in with the notes on the page and the pain in that musicians voice. That’s what I’m talking about. I almost tried to read my work just now. I can’t be left to my own devices. I keep tap dancing around this issue, because I’m at that point where I need to create. I’m listless and emotional and I just need to create something… anything. Doesn’t have to be much, doesn’t have to be very much at all. The problem is, that dark place.. it scares me. It haunts me to the core. 

There are people that need to go through physical pain. Loss of people, tragedies, accidents. They need those earth shattering events. They feel it so much and it consumes their souls; they get lost inside the outside pain. For others, for me, it’s emotional. Emotional is worse than physical; it follows you. Never leaves your side. You know it’s there and every time it starts to resurface it you push it down angrily and try to cover it up with drugs, alcohol, food, meaningless relationships, anything. You need to numb yourself. The worst pain lives within you. Yet, if I want to agree with what I’m writing, its safe to say that it’s also the best. Sure, you can get good work out of tragedies. But that psychological shit that goes on in your brain? Yeah, that’s gold. That’s the heart of all creativity. The soul of the artist.

This is my love letter to pain; let’s see what you have for me this time..