How is it so much easier to write from a place of pain than love? It’s easier to seek the validity that comes from illegal righteousness than pursue the freedom that already exists within our hearts. Creativity bleeds from previously scabbed wounds and we watch it trickle, fascinated by the consistent flow. I used to wonder what would occur first: Would the loss of blood cause dizziness or would my hand cramp from scribbling so fast simultaneously? We tap into sentimental variables to feel at peace but can’t admit that we create the drama in our lives to fuel the passions we so intensely fear will dissipate. Does the well run dry when we are parched on purpose?