I have heard it said that the best art is borne out of pain, out of tragedy, out of injustice. I have come to appreciate this point of view, much as the carpenter understands the acute throbbing in his thumb after he strikes it cleanly with his hammer. No prose, no matter how flowery or verbose, no matter how skillfully crafted and metered, can convey the distress, discomfort, and agony felt by one whose experience is personal. In such seasons of hurt I find that my writing can be quite beneficial to me as I pore through my emotions, my thoughts, and my very soul to give some measure of voice to my inner turmoil. It sometimes feels like my heart and mind find much greater release through my fingers as they flash over my keyboard than anything I could say to another. Perhaps this is because my computer does not judge me for what I type. I can let loose the most horrific, hate-filled, irresponsible, and one-sided diatribe, and it just lets me let it all out. No judgment, no hurt looks, no blame, no admonishments. I can express anything in the world and I am still wholly accepted for who and what I am. It allows me the purest form of expressionism. Then, when my heart is less burdened, it welcomes me to back to try and restate my thoughts in a more positive, more productive, and more healing manner.
