My whole life I've been taught that pain produces the greatest art. Not necessarily physical pain; not even necessarily pain. Stress, strife, anger, all synonyms in this context for the catalyst of creation, that spark that allows us to make.

I thought that was silly. I've been creating things my whole life, be it drawing or writing or making incomprehensible shapes out of sculpey. I was never miserable. In fact, on the contrary, it brought me great joy and satisfaction.

Until recently, I hadn't really thought about that connection in depth. I've been out of high school for a couple years now, and have been working at Buffalo Wild Wings for the last eleven months. I don't need to tell you that I hate my job. My managers are clueless. Half the crew is borderline autistic. Every night I get home at 2 or 3 A.M., stressed out and pissed off, and for a while I was hugely depressed. I felt like I was watching my life melt like a candle with a too-short wick. Like I was wasting my time. But then I discovered this wiki, and started writing again. Some of the best I've ever done.

Creativity is a fickle bitch. I've discovered that there is some truth in that bit of wisdom- depression, anxiety, pain, each inspires to some degree. It can allow us to take the experience of it and make something new from its remains, transmuting it into this raw suldge that can be handled with few ill effects, making us own it instead of having it own us. There is merit to misery.