Art does not fill aches. It echoes them. It enhances them. It makes them more vibrant.
Our senses are so attuned to our internal aches. The smell of jasmine perfume makes my heart stir for Switzerland, for travel. That song with the undulating, ghostly echoes makes my head swim with an insecurity from last autumn. And yet, I don’t turn away from these things. I devour them. I spray the scent into the air, onto me; I play the same song over and over again until its melody sinks into my bones.
I watch the films that make me hurt. I read the words that make me uncomfortable. I look at photographs that make me feel ill.
A teacher once told me that people like to feel pain because it makes them feel human. Feeling nothing at all, that is the worst.
Art does not fill aches. It echoes them. It enhances them. It makes them more vibrant. I devour them, as a writer. I seek them out, curl up in them, and love them. They brew inside me, weaving into my soul, and then I write, setting them free, letting the ache abate, whether it’s sadness or jealousy or a joy that brims with too much feeling.