I have dreams of writing a novel and being a writer of literature. I dream of the characters I will create most of all. I want to be a good writer. I want to be a writer that contributes to society and creates writing that is truthful. So like any philosophy student aspiring to be a philosopher, I begin with a question. What does it mean to be a true writer? What is the value of a writer? Yet I search for the answer to these questions in the most unlikely of places: the Phaedrus.
When I write in my journal I find that I am pulling out thoughts and emotions from within myself to lay out clearly so that I can understand the workings of my mind. It is an intensely personal process where I have the sanctuary to acknowledge what usually cannot be said out loud. It is an act of self-recognition through ink.
I wouldn't be able to list all the kinds of heartbreak even if I tried. To list all the heartbreaks would not just mean that I'd have to live more years of life but I would actually have to live multiple lives spanning all the different worlds of people. Recently, though, I have experienced a heartbreak- the end of a friendship that I thought would be an endure forever, let's grow old and tell everyone our love has survived decades, kind of friendship. The circumstances are too raw to share.
For slowly but surely, I came to recognize how I had experienced two of the madnesses, all through the experience of creative inspiration, even though it was in the diluted form of being an amateur. It was the mild madness that came with me trying to be a writer. There was another madness I experienced, but this one came from me experiencing an artwork by an artist that was creatively inspired. This is the madness I think everyone has experienced in varying degrees.