I have noticed with increasing familiarity that pain is invisible.

It often sears on the inside, where heaven and hell coincide,

somewhere in the dark pits of where they say the soul lives.

And finally, when your deepest thoughts are broken, it makes

itself known in steady outbursts, sometimes spilling where the

palm touches the page to bleed, and it does so, very eloquently,

very silently, until it can hold its sore edges together with the

only shred of pretense it can offer itself –

pain makes art.

~ Ashka Naik | The Silent Scribbler

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