The Invisible Spectrum

Is it only visible pain that can rouse the artistic muse?

Alcoholism. Substance abuse. Sexual addiction. All of it. The "romanticism" of  serious artistry. How sickness can be "romantic" alludes me.

Succumbing to consumption is the stuff of sepia toned movies. Dying an alcohol soaked, syphillic tweaker - not so much.

But somehow self destructive behavior remains the favored darlings of plots in movies and books.

Almost.

Depression has no symptoms. If you don't know any better.

The symptoms aren't sexy. Sleeping all day, crying for no apparent reason, withdrawing, isolating, longing, delusion - all of it. They have no dramatic appeal. The aren't even easy to depict accurately.

An illness of omission.

An ironic bitch too.

Inactivity wrapped loosely around raging, screaming, garment rending, hate filled, and  utterly internalized violence.

So, can invisible pain rouse the artistic muse?

When stasis is the symptom, is action the cure?

How can it be?

There is no spark to ignite the fuel. There is no fuel to light.

Maybe if I can dig deep enough. Maybe there's a lump of coal deep in the back of the furnace that can still burn.

But why?

Ah, the choking  returns.

Trying. Thinking about trying invokes the foul minions of depression to action.

And the sole activity programmed into the vile cores of their beings is to poison every last vestige of initiative left in me.

Invisibly, of course.

C