Inspiring
Many wonder why I do not update my journal more often. I suppose this is because the art of writting is not something that comes easily to me. As such, I tend to write only when I find the inspiration to do so. Sadly, I find such inspiration in turmoil and discord.

As of late I have been content with life.

I have found that this is so for many of the artists I prize. Take Edgar Allan Poe. His poetry stirs something deep within me. His prose pours passion into my soul... it makes my blood boil. When I read his words I feel... ALIVE. Yet, from what I have read he lived a bleak existence.

Is it not tragic, yet strangely fitting, that such beauty should arise from sorrow?