I have often contemplated, if given the opportunity, would I trade my well adjusted and highly functional, enjoyable life of average intelligence for the singular brilliance of a tortured, tormented artist, creating amazing works, but suffering the mandatory psychosis.
Every genius seems incapable of forming normal human connections, dive bombing any meaningful relationships and failing at those simple interactions taken for granted by the rest of us. The inherent struggle to attain stability amidst the enveloping waves of alienation, surely produces a chronic psychic pain.
Does the guilt of the profound gift, bestowed upon the supersensitive, create such a crushing burden that the steady path descending into self destruction is the only visible escape route?
Or do those sweet, perfect pinnacles of euphoria, saturating your very core upon profound artistic achievement, mollify the pain and lonely isolation of a world without peers?
Every genius seems incapable of forming normal human connections, dive bombing any meaningful relationships and failing at those simple interactions taken for granted by the rest of us. The inherent struggle to attain stability amidst the enveloping waves of alienation, surely produces a chronic psychic pain.
Does the guilt of the profound gift, bestowed upon the supersensitive, create such a crushing burden that the steady path descending into self destruction is the only visible escape route?
Or do those sweet, perfect pinnacles of euphoria, saturating your very core upon profound artistic achievement, mollify the pain and lonely isolation of a world without peers?
