We creative types, maybe we are a little different from the rest. Maybe we have to be...to sit for hours, writing tiny little notes on a page that will someday compel a performer to make beautiful music...to mix the paints to create the perfect sky or type simply
the most perfect line of poetry.
Maybe we creative, artsy type folks need to be different.
Maybe it's our emotions and wearing our heart on our ink-stained sleeves, or the inability to feel angry or sad or joyful without producing a tangible object that reflects our souls.
Maybe some days we wonder what it is like to be like another, maybe someone not so wildly lost in mental gymnastics and emotional turmoil until a brushstroke or a symphony or the written word or the moving image wipes away
the grief and the anguish and the irreparable sadness.
How do humans deal with life's cruelty
without such solace as a song?
Tragedy births great art.
Pain envelopes creativity in its subtle blanket.
Joy washes over the creative soul like a gentle shower after a typhoon.
And yet there are many days that I wonder what my life would be like
if I were different,
if I didn't feel, if I was free.
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