One of the things I don’t understand is this immense and deep obsession people have when it comes to heartbreak and pain. They say that when you undergo the process of getting your heart broken, we give birth to our art. That’s why we are familiar with Cobain’s words, “Thanks for the tragedy, I need it for my art.” We often nurture the feeling as if it were our child, being cradled in our arms, pushing away its hair off of his face, and encouraging him to grow to the boy he is about to be in the future. We often romanticize the feeling of staying up late at three a.m. in the morning, eyes puffed up from crying, lips stained with prayers and wishes that someday this pain will make absolute sense to us. We write about our experiences, ink them on journals and back of receipts, paint them on empty canvasses and create sculptures out of them, immortalized the emotional state you’re in, and beg that words and colors would be enough to delay the agony that’s been raging inside our chests.

But that’s where we are wrong. Heartbreak and pain shouldn’t be the benchmark of the art we’re going to make. We should write when we are happy, when we are in the highest state of our minds, with the world under our feet and the sky just within reach. We should write when the tears in the corners of our eyes are creation of pure joy, when our hands shake because we are so **** happy of the state we are in, when our knees turn soft because we couldn’t stand the fact that here we are, frolicking in the waves of pure bliss. So that when we are sad and feeling the blues, we have something to read or something to look at and think, “Ah, those were good times. Those were the happy times. Those were the best times.”