What will become of those who dwell in misery? Of those who need disaster as inspiration to write or create any other form of artistic expression? I am one of them... I fight violently against this lack of inspiration that has taken over, against the loss of passion for light... Dwelling in darkness has become confortable. I've always heard that you should write what you know and that's what I try to do; I write what I know - and all I've known is sorrow. To the people who read or apreciate what they (we) do, it is a blessing that we feel these (tormented) feelings with such intensity that we either translate them into words (or other means) or explode! Sometimes, I feel like my heart is about to burst out of my chest and all of it's million broken pieces are scattered through the air like ash... and like ash the tiny fragments of my broken heart end up falling in diferent far away places, resting on people's hair or skin, on leaves of trees, on the floor, on a river which sweeps them away towards even further away places... and so on. Thus, my heart would live on in others, in Nature. But it would not be known... it would remain the mistery that it is today.
Maybe, sometime soon, the bliss that I secretly long for will knock on my door or maybe kick me when I walk down the street or it will slowly seep in as I grow older. Who Knows? I certainly still haven't been able to define "bliss" nor "love"... I've only known passion. And recently I've developed a passionate hunger for life. I've decided that I've been drowning in sadness and melancholy for far too long. I've started to enjoy each moment that life gives me. I wake up and go to sleep smilling. I have finally put the past to rest. May it rest in peace.
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