Imagine a person sitting on a sidewalk in absolute silence… and it’s raining heavily… The person you’re imagining could be a character of fiction or someone you know. Our imaginations are limitless. Let’s say the person you just imagined is a poet. As if a sane person would sit anywhere in the pouring rain!? So why do you think she’s crying? What happened? Does she have worries clouding her mind? Did someone tell her mean things? There’s no need for a reason. Poets aren’t happy. It’s not that they “can’t” be happy… It’s not that they don’t “deserve” to be happy… They just don’t “have” to be happy… It’s not exactly their purpose in life. Their purpose in life is to feel all the pain this cruel world withholds and to write down their pain in the most bittersweet way possible. While they’re feeling all the misery, they wither like flowers. They even cheat death at times.
Poets aren’t unhappy creatures… in fact if the topic is love, they can be on cloud nine. Poets are either too happy or too sad. The in-betweeners are the unpoetical, insensitive and soulless people. Poets know the real meaning of both misery and passion. I doubt that anyone other than poets could write so well about life itself.
Happiness can’t be exaggerated without poets. Although poets can be really good with connecting words about happiness… they aren’t “blessed” with happiness. As if unhappiness runs in their genes.
I’m asking you… who would write the pangs of love so beautifully if it weren’t for the rejected, dumped and forgotten poets…?? If I’m a poet then this is my only theory for unhappiness… because I’m looking at the things I own and happiness is the only one I keep losing…