Unpolished

beauty in darkness

I envy those with the sorrows. Those who have loved and lost. Those who have slept in the dark in lust. Those who woke up in the false light of desires in remorse. I have my griefs too. But none so similar or raw. My sorrows are muted and middle-class; my angst and heartache mere theories skirting those edges where the eternal fall is inevitable. If I possess a great sorrow it is my inexperience.

But I am angry at those who have been pained yet refused to make anything of it. I am appalled by people who have lived the life yet settled to leave their blues as memories. How far can our fleshy brains store them? There is the pen and the paper! There are instruments. There is clay. There is charcoal. There are canvasses littering the city in perpetual wait for the artist of sorrow, the man of regret, the woman of grief, the children of abandon, and the old folks of loss.

Why leave things to memory? There is no greater insult to a man of inexperience, like myself, than to see those who possess the virtue of suffering leave their sensations unrecorded. A man writes, sings, sculpts, dances, molds, paints his sorrows not to be immortalized but to tell the men and women of inexperience there is beauty in the darkness.