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Only in sorrow

17 November 2012 | Category: Stories | Author: Clare

Sitting in the loft, tucked into a couple blankets, I am listening to the fire crackle downstairs.

The snow is falling heavily outside, and I am stealing a couple hours in thought before heading out into the cold for the day.

It is bizarre to me what can move us to be creative.

I cannot say with any degree of certainty how this may differ from person to person.

Beautiful topography, moving stories from different people's lives.

The pain of heartbreak, or the freedom of fresh love.

For me I am liberated when happy, tormented when sad.

And while that in and of itself is entirely sensical, I cannot say it follows that it is only in torment that I can find any real ability to be creative.

Inspiring scenery will take my breath away and make me feel alive. A smile will spread across my face with such beautiful honesty. But it is the hardship of the trip to the ridge that provides the theatre for self-discovery, and somewhere within that an opening in your soul where you can be truly inspired.

There is an irony to that which baffles me.

As an interesting aside, leaning on a bio-chemical example, there is some hypothesis out there that syphilis as it progresses through it's many faces of degeneration, causes creative capacity in it's host that is nothing short of genius. Beethoven, Mozart, Van Gogh, and many others.

By tracking the chronology of the disease and laying this ugly continuum like a shadow over each of their lives, their most beautiful symphonies, their most bizarre and complex decisions, coincide with the bio-chemical changes in their brain rendering them clinically insane, as a consequence of their affliction.

Perhaps I am not alone in finding a parallel space in sorrow.

It is in that place of deepest introspection that the door opens to another chamber in your heart, and in sadness, I find creativity.

And only there.

I beat the piano, I dust off the clarinet, I read, write and draw. I build. The struggle to give voice to an anguish in the hopes that by doing that it may dissipate somehow. Or perhaps something inspiring may come of it.

What a strange correlation.

The relationship between beauty and pain is not so hard to understand. Generally sadness is born of something spectacular. The pain at losing someone you love, the anguish at failing at something you were brave enough to try and accomplish.

I read somewhere once,

...only brave warriors fall from their horses in battle.

Initially that seems counterintuitive. But it is not. The focus shouldn't be on the fact that we fall; it should be on the fact that we were courageous enough to be there in the first place.

The creativity that comes from somewhere deep inside is the voice of our pain.

Strangely it is not ugly at all, just simple, honest, beautiful.

In some ways, how could it be otherwise?

 

 


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