Nobody likes tortured artists

Many writers were highly productive in times of great pain or strife. The japanese writer Dazai Osamu or his american peer Hemmingway come to mind. Of course both of them gave up and killed themselves which makes them poor role models overall. The tortured, exiled, outcasted and forsaken are known for creating a large body of work; most of that work is hollow. It lacks the vitality of life that so many other authors can capture. For every pain in my heart I feel as those lonely dejected men did: That life is cruel and unfair, that I am destined never to improve or be acknowledged. All this does is disconnect me from the flow of life.

It's easy to remove yourself from society. To rail against it from afar. This is a gross misuse of words. We should not be sheep, nor should we be fools. Railing from afar rarely if ever brings about change. Nor does it improve our situation. It may or may not produce a work of genius... but more then likely it will be as pitiful as the author is. The writer feels better, perhaps he changes a few minds and attracts other tortured souls; but in the long run nobody remembers a generation for it's tortured souls.

I hurt for more reasons then I can count. The temptation to fall into this pattern of writing and feeling is immense. It's benefits immediate and appealing. It's another struggle in a soul that is torn in many directions already.
Already I have slid into it partly and I can see myself in the future falling deeper and deeper into it. Every new cut opens my older wounds which bleed anew.
When I was faced with death I felt nothing but regret. Regret for love... regret for my writing, regret for those I would leave behind. Fear was secondary to that feeling that I failed at life. Here I am now with a bleeding heart that won't be staunched and a tormented soul. I try to connect to that flow of life and I can't. An empty and tortured being is counter to that great tao or energy.

For a long time I felt I had something to prove to the world. I had to excel where others had declared I would fail. I had to validate my existance because so many around me denied it's worth. I believed them in my heart and tried so hard to do it. Sometimes I would not and broke down and gave up. You cannot impress others intentionally even if it's your sole wish and desire. Moreover in recent time I have tried to prove to myself that my existance is justified, I have forced my own growth when it should be natural... I am not free to love with an open heart because I am not who I am suppose to be. Everything causes something else; as time goes on the messes get larger and larger until I cannot know where to begin to fix them. Everything I am now is a mess and counter-to what I am inside, the true me. I know that so many things in this world are short lived, there are people I love that I cannot tell I love because the pain to me is so great. I cannot release my pain or anger... anger which feels cold and hollow. Because I cannot let go of that pain I can't and shouldn't love anyone or anything.

Yes. I have chosen to change who I am. But really all I am doing is unmasking who I am. Every new nick and cut stings me, for this process is open and peels away the thick skin I have devloped. Some of my plans for the future have to be abandoned. Some of my dreams can never be reality. There are people I care for that I cannot never express my love for, I will never see them again and if that wasn't enough I am certain that the frustration will only grow worse as the obstacles rise behind what I can accomplish myself. Help is not in god or the tao. Help is in the laugher of a friend, in their embrace and companionship. It's in the acceptance of life and all that stands for.
I have always known the answer to my problems, and even now I would rather suffer and struggle then accept and follow it. Maybe when I've run out of walls to scale I'll turn around and face why I am really truly hurting.

Goodnight.