A Curative Power

I remember a piece written by Charles Bukowski about holding a knife to his throat and grinning in front of a bathroom mirror. If I recall it correctly, he wrote how this vision of himself transformed a seemingly desperate moment to a different perspective. The spectacle of killing himself amused him enough not to go through with it, noting that dramatics could sustain what reality and despair could so easily fail and more importantly, in this solitary demonstration, reality could be altered.

I thought of this upon writing a poem today. The poem reflected a bleak and isolated state of mind and on its completion and subsequent examination, I did not find it to be perfect by any measure or something to share with others at all. Instead I found that writing it eased the burden of the depression it was written in. Once again I have relearned my personal value attached to art - not to say my poem is necessarily art, but that creation - even of something seemingly destructive - is restorative and ultimately good for my psyche.

Anyway, so many others acknowledge their paths to salvation. I'm just doing the same.