Why is it that I can only write when I’m in a dark place in my life?
Why can I never find the words to put on the page unless I’m fucking dying inside?
If only there was an answer that didn’t just serve as a reminder.
If only there was a way around it.
But it’s an art-form.
One which draws out our deepest feelings, positive and negative.
An art that is both benevolent and malevolent simultaneously.
Read by many, understood by some, appreciated by fewer still.
What does it say when the writer cries over his work while the readers simply shrug?
What does that say about the author?
Or the work itself?
And even in the dark times when writing comes easier
Brick walls keep coming up, blocking attempts at creativity and revealing the art of the mind.
The process never gets easier.
Constantly finding roadblocks, new and old thoughts conflicting, emotions shifting around.