Bloody mess

Putting pen to paper is something cathartic. Everybody knows it, you write as a way to empty your mind, dumping all your thoughts and feelings into a sea of words. If you are lucky no one will ever read you, no one will ever get to see that wound you opened to tarnish the page with oozing blood.

If you are brave you might even curl it all into a dirty ball and toss it, or burn it. If you are proud, like me, you'll publish it somewhere, for no one to see... but longing for the possibility of connection that might arise unexpectedly from someone reading it... and maybe, just maybe, seeing it as their own. That "this was written for me" moment.

If you are stupid you will show it willingly to people, hoping to push that connection. If you are even stupider, like me, you might show it to the person that inspired the bloody mess. And then you might understand the need to tend to your wounds yourself, to not show weakness.

The world is a mess, and all I can think about is how that mess has been present in our minds all along. How did we even contain it?

A couple months ago I had a discussion about suffering with a friend, he didn't agree with me when I said someone was suffering while singing... he laughed at my definition of suffering saying it was plain wrong. Suffering was suppose to be deeper and meaningful. The mother that suffers for losing a child. And I... agreed with him. I felt stupid for misusing such a word.

But now, when I think about it... the world suffers all the time, and we do suffer for vain and shallow things. We choose to feel that, I believe. But why?

Do we think suffering makes life worth living? 

Or does it just make life interesting enough to live?

Why do we see such beauty in suffering?

The singer that sings pain and suffers while doing it, the dancer that chooses to dance even though every single bone hurts, the mediocre guy that writes whatever comes to mind even if it feels horrible... better yet if it feels horrible. Because it's cathartic. Right?