I wish I could write about pure pain. The purity of pain is almost divine in it's form. The real tears, the despair, the verse that drips of a flawless depression, the melodies that reek of everything grey, like a cloudy day with no rays, of any kind.
Pure pain can be as beautiful with regard to what it churns out, as a misty hilltop after a few drizzles, as a pure blue stream of water with a tinge of pebble-y refractions.
It's a romantic state. It's all about the romance, this pain. When you're down there, in the hollow pit of extreme moroseness, you create this little grey world of your own. You know it can only be an upward climb, but you'll stay there. The beauty of the state doesn't imply anything pleasing.
It's beautiful because it's miraculous.
It's beautiful because it pulls out of you some of the most pristine emotions, from the never-seen-before corners of your heart.
I wish I could write about this beauty, while in this beauty.
Just once, I wish i could find myself a place in that pit.
It's a bizarre request.
I just want to feel the pain to be able to create beauty.