I have heard many other writers and musicians say over the years that artists do their best work from places of pain. I haven’t had many painful places in my life that haunt me. I have mostly been able to make it through life without stumbling into too many traps, but now I have people to hide from, emotions to try to ignore, and pain that wakes me at night. I have met so many people in the last four years since my divorce, both men and women, who have horrific stories to tell about love gone bad — mates who did the unthinkable to them. After awhile, it starts to wear on you.
When I was newly divorced and first began hearing what happened in other people’s lives, I appreciated my own story and how things ended in my own relationship. But now I see it as part of this collective pain, joined with all the terrible happenings in the lives of the lost. I can’t describe how this happened, but it’s depressing in its own right. I’m beginning to see the world for what it is: a fallen place that we can only hope to escape while causing a minimal amount of harm to the people we love — and the ones we want to, if they will let us.