They say about the tortured artist that there is a link between the art and the mania, the art and depression. A toxic fuel coarsening through veins exhilarated but eroding quick.
Would they trade it in if they had the chance? Burn clean and long, not dark and fast? Would some steal back from the brink, push violently against their demons and sacrifice what could be their only chance at greatness? Trash it for some safe, sterilized version of happiness?
And if genius entails depression, requires it of the otherwise meek and average, and if we find ourselves depressed, could the converse be true, could it entail genius? Or is there a middle ground, a godforsaken hell of a place where one can recognize the great, catch its fleeting glimpse, feel for just a moment the thrill of life’s defining, dangerous edges, but where we also know inside we can never retreat and fully leave the normal world behind, nor can we keep the faith required to let loose and really live, whether it means living or dying? Continue reading