They say for the best of writing to flow through you, you have to experience pain. Poetry stems from the misery you’ve endured. This is true more often than not. Even art, music, in short, every kind of beauty seems to be a necessary corollary of pain. This has not only been proven time and time again but has been hailed as one of the fundamental truths of life.
Yet, no one talks about how difficult a place it is to be in. How difficult a choice it is, when you’re caught between the two things you love the most. One that has been your respite from the drudgery of life and the other that is a newcomer that’s got you brimming with hope. That ever elusive, hopelessly dead hope that you’d given up all thoughts of achieving.
I’ll stop being cryptic now. What I’m talking about is the love for writing and happiness, the two things that matter most. I agree, I’ve always been best tempted to write when I’m down in the dumps. I’ve produced the most cathartic of content when my heart and soul have been aching. However, I’m tired of the misery.
People, since time immemorial, have romanticized the idea of pain by putting on blinders and seeing only the end result, the beautiful mess that comes out of it. They ignore the blood and tears that have been poured into it.
So, I’ve decided to allow myself to be happy, even at the cost of abandoning my oldest ally. I have decided to ditch the despondency, even if it means I’ll never pick up the pen again. Because what happiness has shown me is that if it’s meant to be, it’ll come to me. It’ll come back to me. It’ll celebrate my happiness with me very much like it alleviated my pain.
They say if you love something, set it free. My darling words, I’m setting you free. I hope you can be there through my joys, not just my miseries.