Pain is the wellspring of all things creative. When it comes to writing, we create lists. We can jot down what troubles us, what moves us into tears that fall into hands. Why not throw those tears down onto the page, in the most metaphorical sense?
What is the alternative to not writing the pain? Keeping it in? What goes in, must come out, right? Life is too short to hold onto a poison, like pain. It must drip like milking the venom from a snake, onto the page, so that the words can be soaked with such.
Love is painful, for one. Sorrow is the pain we find within love. It is because love is painful, that the bandage can sting far worse than the wound. Though, it still heals. Are we that willing to bury the pain, afraid that unleashing it may hurt? It should be known that life is far more painful, on the lonely journey of it, than love. It is not, in fact, that love is more painful, though is that we believe it to be, because we tend to take comfort in our own shadows.
And the pain that one keeps moving through words, is always the pain of experience. Love always has to do with it, because it is the connection lost, that creates the pain. When do we realize the worth of something? It is when we’ve lost it.
Stuff the pain into the page, so you can stuff the pages into a book. Should a person find your work to fascinate them, they will hold it in attentiveness, and their patience will match what it took to create it.
Pain takes work to work through, to make the work. It will be the work where others will discover their clarity. It will be the work where others will share a connection of pain with you, and the healing can begin.
Modern Romanticism 