“No person is ever content with their own lives, should they be filling the gap in other people with what they should be filling into themselves.”– Modern Romanticism
I have treated pain as the source of my creativity. Though, these days, whenever I write a poem, it is not from inspiration. Sadness has always been my inspiration. Though, when life is under control, it feels alien to even admit that. Because, contentment with life is resulting in discontent with my work.
I have experienced, in 2018 and 2019, a Hell of a depression, and an immense amount of fear, though did not come from nowhere. It was a situation I had to handle, and then I came out of. Though, it was only a little later, when depression struck again over something else, and then I was forced to say upon myself, “Either I can live with this pain, or I can come up with an idea to heal it, instantly.” I chose the latter.
Of course, with any decision, it has its consequences. In healing my pain instantly, I drove creativity out of me. Though, life will always throw me another curveball. This, I know. But, when one feels strong in any point in their lives, has things maintained, one is then discontent with what they can produce, out of creativity. This would mean that discontentment with life will produce a creative work, for the artist to be content with. It would also mean that contentment with life will produce a work, for the artist to be discontent with.
From discontentment to contentment, it must be the same in a parent who looks upon their own childhood, to see something that never occurred. Then, upon having their own child, their own creation, they drill those absences to be a presence in the offspring’s mind. This forms the parent’s content, though perhaps the child’s discontent.
From creator to creation, then from discontentment to contentment, we are not satisfied, as humans, until what was absent in the past is present in the future.