Tortured Artist #86527

On paper, I have never been happy. And that’s because there is not a single moment in my life where I was happy and chose to record it. I don’t feel joy in my heart and decide to take a picture, or tweet about it, and I don’t deem my own joy as good enough inspiration to write anything. I am happy, and then the moment passes. So, yes, I do not think there is a single self-made documentation of me being happy. Strange, but that’s the predicament I find myself in.

Nobody asked, but that’s the exact answer I gave to someone who asked why I don’t write “happy stories.” Of course, simply telling them “I don’t know how to” would’ve sufficed. But where’s the flair in that?

At a time in my life, I questioned why I was unable to express any emotions outside grief, anger, introspection, subtle excitement, and cynical humor in my work. I didn’t grow up sad; I don’t have a sob story for a childhood, and I can boldly say that, aside from those caused by my nationality, most forms of struggle and suffering are obscure to me. And yet, my soul only seeks to express what I can only term the call of the void.

In time, I learned of the likes of Van Gogh, Kafka, and Goya — people tortured by their minds who used their work as an outlet. That is almost the exact same way I feel about everything I make. Sometimes everything gets so overwhelming that writing something feels like alleviating my head from some pressure. Hence, why I have so many pieces that would make one shed a tear.

A part of me believes that we all made a bargain with the universe and our art is what we got in return. For me, the price was my joy. That is not to say I’m a good writer because I’m miserable. I can be miserable and terrible at writing; one does not exist mutually exclusive of the other, and at least those two things rhyme. However, I am able to acknowledge that whatever talent I have is tied to the abysmal feeling I get in my chest when I’ve been left alone for too long.

It feels like every time I put something out, I lose a piece of myself. My sanity is my sacrifice, this is my altar, and you are my audience. For the most part, I don’t really mind it. I just worry a bit about how much soul I have left to give.