In a span of about 15 minutes and a few prompts, I wrote a piece to tell the story of a struggle that is not my own.
It started out with my showing her a different piece I had written which brought out a rather intense reaction from her. It was to be expected. That piece was the voice who is the subject of the piece below. So I asked her if she wanted me to write something for her, and she gave a slight objection, insisting that it'd be a pathetic and sad story. I knew it'd be sad, but pathetic? Nah. So I asked for two emotions, and as she spoke, I wrote. The result is what we have below.
When I sent it back to her the emotional response I got indicated that it was a success.
That's what art should do, I think. It should rip you up, tear you down, drag out every bit of color you've been hiding away and translate itself in a way you've been feeling and expressing all along, even if it's created by someone else.
I think it's odd sometimes that the things I write are rarely happy and lighthearted, yet somehow, in a way, once the words become the darkness the inspiration has been carrying, they themselves are left void of the weight.
I guess that's why art can be great therapy.
