Tears and Ink: The Cost of Creative Brilliance

Franz Kafka, Sylvia Plath, Fyodor Dostoevsky, and I have one thing in common: we were sad.

« Sadness turned into art »

The other day, as I stared at the ceiling with music blaring in my ears to drown out my thoughts, I couldn't help but wonder: when will it end? When will the sadness wash away, finally granting me a moment of peace, a moment to breathe, a moment to enjoy?

I sat up and realized that I couldn't drag this sadness around like an inseparable piece of myself, an everlasting shadow. I wondered if this was my fate—to live in constant sadness even during moments of laughter, to feel anxiety even at the sight of calming views. I couldn't believe that this was it—that I would feel like this even when my life changed, even when I was far from where it all started. I couldn't accept that this was what all my Mondays were going to look like: staring at a wall, unable to sleep, with music guiding the scenarios in my head or sometimes the words from my pen.

My sadness was so deeply imprinted in me that it became my way to write. I don't know why, but I can't seem to write when I'm happy. When sadness washes over me, that's when the words pour from my heart and onto the keyboard, forming sentences that sometimes even touch me. Writing while sad was like pouring everything out, then being drained from doing it, and finally being able to sleep. Why do I only write when I can't handle it all? Why can't I write about my love for people? Why can't I express my joy for things? My writings are always tinted with melancholy. I saw the end of the tunnel and instead of turning back and walking towards the exit, I just sat there and wrote.

That's why I started hating my words—because they painted me all in black when I wasn't to be defined by one emotion. I'm angry at myself for being sad and therefore for writing. Nevertheless, nothing comes when I want to produce something. Nothing is good enough. It doesn't sound like me. I'm not happy with it because I'm trying to convince everyone of something I'm not. We can see this phenomenon in other artists too; after a heartbreak, a loss of money, or any form of sadness, their music, books, or any art really is promised to be astounding. When they're happy, they don't feel the need to pour all that sadness out into the world.

I wonder if when the time will come, i’ll be ready to sacrifice my art for happiness.

Note from author:

This piece isn’t really finished or as well developed like the others because i haven’t found all the answers yet. Therefore Tears and ink could become a series. Thank you for reading!