Prozac-osaurus-rex.

People die, they get into car accidents. They bleed out, scream their skull into bits. Hearts fall to pieces, cancer rots bodies away. A lot of shit happens everyday, and in it all there lies the potential for something to be found. Cherished, worshiped. Valued. And its different for everyone. Some love, some fly. Some write, watch, and some let the pain inspire them. Some walk the fine line between self indueced suffering and the desire to create something beautiful out of all the bad. Something for them to set on display, so all of the other people have something to value. Something to marvel at, and think, oh. How tragic, but now look at this beautiful thing. Look at this beautiful and interesting thing that has come out of all of that. And voila. This thought fills them with hope, happiness. Courage to keep looking for that beauty in the wreckage. i dont mean to trash inspiration, and creativity or any of that. I think art is a glorious thing, and the way it can move people is remarakable. But what about the artists that slip, What happens when the line begins to blur? I imagine they lose themselves, to more pain. More suffering, mind numbing desire. Maybe even insanity, I really cant say. But, I certainly believe that beyond the blurred line, their lies the true artist.