The act of writing reveals its deeper function: a disciplined way of metabolizing suffering. Stripped of cultural polish, it is a structured, and often solitary method of turning inner chaos into external order. In essence, writing becomes a healthy sublimation of darkness, transforming primitive drives into higher, even noble, expression.
The writer doesn’t escape suffering; they transmute it
The same force that might consume; as self-harm, addiction, or rage is redirected into language, image, and form. The pain doesn’t vanish, it’s recontextualized into meaning.
For me, writing is a healthy response to the absurdity and darkness of life, especially when it transforms. Addiction binds; destruction externalizes; rumination spirals. Writing integrates. It gives chaos a name, a clear boundary.
In that sense, the true writer isn’t escaping pain; they’re performing the psychological plumbing of living consciously. And for me, that remains the most persuasive argument for making art, not for others, but for oneself.