From One Tortured Artist To Another,

I used to be in a really bad place, in more ways than one. Even now, it still calls to me from time to time.

I had no tether to life other than the desire to escape it. I thought the choice was either being landlocked in the prison of my own mind, or to live out the rest of my days in open waters (-and I can’t swim). 

Maybe that’s what Sylvia Plath felt as she stood on the shoreline.

I take meds now.

It was the best decision I’ve made.

It was the only way I could learn this: creativity, truly, is to flirt with insanity.

And creative success is dependent on how long you can keep it there, in that sweet spot between all in and apathy.

And the only way I could realize that creativity is not born from pain but as a reflection of it; and that art is born from me is because I am still living, still trying, still fighting, still loving, and still wanting, even though everything around me and in me is telling me not to.

I believe that art is supposed to be a salve for this broken world – so how I could I expect, then, to create if I was perpetually keeping myself broken?

It wasn’t my fault, but the responsibility falls onto me now. It’s not fair, but it’s the cards that I got. So, I did the work. I am doing the work. I’m now able to have my head up in the clouds but only because my feet are on the ground.

And maybe one day, I won’t be so afraid to feel completely found.

What about you?