Why is it that misery is a preface to artistic revelation?
I have heard that the happiest years of our lives are a waste; we never learn a thing.
I believe that this is a lie, a comfort to give our darkest moments some kind of purpose.
In the hiccups of my life where I fall back into the arms of self loathing and depression; I remind myself of aspects that will only hold me back, regress my progress; I question my loneliness, self worth.
Perhaps this is merely a testament to there being 'two types of people', those who strive in the sunlight of their lives, and those who flourish in the eclipse, the twilight sepulcher. One thing I will attribute to that statement however; I do feel a moment of life, of fire, anguish in these parts.
Every fiber of my personal universe is telling me I need to be alone. An extrovert, classic.
I adore social interactions, I am terrified of being allowed enough time to think about myself; if you were me, wouldn't you be too? I want to scream my feelings, I sometimes imagine they may burst from my chest. Even with a significant other, I cannot; I very often feel that they, yes even they, don't know the real me, but to be fair, who is the 'real me'? Am I this creative butterfly with her wings clipped? Or am I this sluggish oaf that has spurts of linguistic artistry that suffices my ego?
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