“I can’t break free ’til I let it go.”
Will it rest upon me, seeping into my wounds as they form, forever? Is it what I need to write well, to care about so much more than my own vapour of a life?
If my macabre insides are what it takes to create wonderful stories, to touch others’ lives by the pen, and perhaps entice them to think differently about our world, then I don’t want to let it go. Never.
Perhaps this sadness is what is needed in order to drive artists. While it is wonderful to feel happy and calm, we might just be trading our creative drive in if we give up our melancholic ways, ourselves, totally.
No lithium for me.