“All writers are vain, selfish and lazy, and at the very bottom of their motives lies a mystery. Writing a book is a long, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand.” ~George Orwell
The ink stains our hands, even if we no longer use quills or ink wells. At times, it stains more than our skin, it stains our souls, marks us as the constant purveyors of madness that we are. It’s like howling at a moon that isn’t there (just try informing one of us of its absence). Not only are we the only ones who see it, we’re hell bent on sharing with the rest of you how all-encompassing it is. We’re dumbfounded by the world’s blindness, amused even. And yet, would we want it any other way?
No—that is surely the uniqueness to this incurable, curious behavior. We’re secretly glad that you can’t see our moon. A wonderful inside joke has been told and instead of merely making us all chuckle to ourselves as we pass each other in life’s line, we get to paint a verbal, canvas-less picture of what you’ve all been missing.
And the reward for this lunacy? The expression on your faces as you see, indeed, what you would not see were it not for the generous sharing of our insanity; what you would find missing from your lives were it not for our howling at absent moons, baying at unseen frights or laughing at non-existent gestures made by imaginary beings.
I’ll take my demons over the unimaginable misery of their non-existence, any day of the week. Some things are better when they’re not fully understood…