I don’t understand those who say unhappiness stimulates their creative impulses, I cant comprehend how morbidity and despair could have artistic fervour as their by products. For me if that darkness ever strikes, its absolute. Black and brooding like a merciless killer, akin to the infinite trap of a black hole nothing escapes, not even things that were as essential as life its self. The being dies, and a joyless other-being takes its place, who is not even liked by himself, thus, the endless cycle of self loathing, self re-crimination begins. and you deny yourself something that made you-you, you abstain from one thing that fed energy to your soul and nourished your mind. It has happened enough times for me to understand it. But self knowledge is not proof.
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