Writers, artist, musicians; creatives in general, have a raw need to express the inexpressible. 
The tragic nature of an artist must be in part due to a loneliness, 
never quite relating, always seeing the world differently. 
We try so desperately to get IT out of us, what we see, feel, taste, EXPERIENCE, get it out in some form, never comparing to the experience itself. 
Melancholy. 
Beauty. 
Now we sit sipping our tea in our middle class homes, with our middle class cars, living our bourgeois lives, laughing all the while at the absurdity of it all. 
None of it is real. 
Where is the beauty...it was never there. 
My tea taste of vanilla and oranges. 
My husband, with a wheelbarrow full of wood, gets on with the day.
I sit in stillness, whilst my tea gets cold.

#moksha