Modern Romanticism

Mental illness had sprouted from me, truly speaking, at the time I fell in love with the only woman I ever loved. I created this blog to write about every feeling I had with her, before our parting.

It was only due to a specific medical condition that created our parting, as that condition would have certainly interfered with the happiness of our marriage.

I have been diagnosed with everything under the table: Schizophrenia, Bipolar 1, Schizoaffective Disorder, Asperger’s Syndrome… and I could have named my life a ruin after taking those diagnoses home with me.

Though, I did not, because I am attempting my best to live my life, only thriving on a very low dose of a prescription anti-psychotic.

I take no anti-depressants, and no anti-anxiety pills. Through the pain, that I feel most days, I adapt to what I notice around me. I even hallucinate when I type words for a poem, attempting to utilize subconscious fear to make my writing flow with it. It’s all strange.

For the only woman I ever loved, I made this blog. I won’t make it disappear. In it, I have written over 800 poems within under a year. Much philosophy is included within the blog, amounting to more than 200,000 more words. Each poem is a testament to her memory. Each word for the philosophy is merely a thought, and one that crosses my mind to send it into a frenzy.

Not only that, but I have written 2 novels, 4 novellas, and plenty of shorter stories, in separate word documents. The first novel was capped at 55,000 words, with the second one at 80,000 words. Including the poems, with the rest, I have written all in 18 months.

I’d call all of this an accomplishment, were it not for the emptiness I feel due to the loss of love in my heart.

I feel pain some days that I cannot stand, and whenever a memory crosses my mind of her, I can write 7 poems, though nothing ever stands out. I want a time to write a masterpiece that will cleanse this pain.

I sometimes wonder if Van Gogh, through his pain, had merely painted an endless series of works, all as fragments to something that could be a whole. Almost as if those “fragments”, being those paintings, were too jagged in shape to make a whole out of a jigsaw puzzle. Nothing fit, that is, from one painting to the next.

Perhaps Van Gogh did as I did, painting so many to never make a complete picture. Thus, he ended his life.

There have been other creators, from musicians to sculptors, who were able to reach deep and pour all their pain into a single work. After that, such artists say to the world that this work “healed them”.