An ice cold sting that starts in your legs, making you numb, and crawling through your veins, getting in your nerves up, up, up into your heart. When it gets there, it feels as though the only hope you ever had is gone.
Disappeared. Extinguished, like a candle.
Perhaps, the worst part is that it comes without a warning. One moment, you’re perfectly content, and the next, you feel as though you’ve been shot. BANG!
If you’ve been there, you know the feeling.
That awful emptiness that settles just behind your ribcage, a constant reminder that you have no emotion left to give to the world. “Take it, it’s yours.” Your fight is over.. you have no strength left to donate to your own cause.
You start to imagine your pain filling up the pages of a notebook. One can’t write without having lived, and feeling the absence of living is bound to count for something.
But dwelling on it simply won’t do.
No, you have to pull yourself up from the pillows, wipe the tears from your swollen cheeks, and start writing. Creating. Channeling your aching into art.
Because without pain, what good is art?
Perhaps, the worst part is that it comes without a warning. One moment, you’re perfectly content, and the next, you feel as though you’ve been shot. BANG!
If you’ve been there, you know the feeling.
That awful emptiness that settles just behind your ribcage, a constant reminder that you have no emotion left to give to the world. “Take it, it’s yours.” Your fight is over.. you have no strength left to donate to your own cause.
You start to imagine your pain filling up the pages of a notebook. One can’t write without having lived, and feeling the absence of living is bound to count for something.
But dwelling on it simply won’t do.
No, you have to pull yourself up from the pillows, wipe the tears from your swollen cheeks, and start writing. Creating. Channeling your aching into art.
Because without pain, what good is art?
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