confused

Without pain there is no art. When there is too much pain there is no art. The sweet spot, definitely, isn't here.

I have been hard on myself. I can't write like I used to. There were days that I would just burst out onto the page. In the darkness I would type away. My screen and my keyboard were my trusty friends, comforting me through my hardships. I got a new laptop a few months ago. Perhaps, the keys are just a little bit alien to me, just as I have become to myself. I don't seem to understand my own pain anymore. I don't understand retribution. I don't understand guilt. I don't understand love. I am lost in my own house. I used to say I didn't understand what I was writing about. That I was gripped in the torrents of life and was trying to capture the unfathomable. That I was unfathomable. Oh all the torrents and all the words might as well go down the drain and I am just as unfathomable as before.