Neurotic love

Those who know me know that i thrive on the written word. Brilliant writing fills me with an ecstasy, which i am yet to discover in any smoked/drunk/imbibed substance.
When i read something that has definitely changed my life monumentally, there is a curiosity to delve deeper into the writer's pschye, to know where it all started, how it came to be,
an arcane urge to know how they loved and lived.
and it is what i do when i finish a book and have decided that the writer belongs to my list of illustrious individuals, only to discover that they are dead
and that they did not live a happy life or die a peaceful death.
It is not a privilege or a special trait or anything 'real cool' at all. It is the greatest tragedy, a loss of the highest order.
There is a large research pool dedicated to the link between key depressive disorders and creativity. It sickens me to realise that they were ailing to cope with the idiosyncrasies of the world they live in, struggling to come to terms with reality, in the most literal of meanings.
And i think, How could they,cope, when that what they forged in their minds was superlative compared to what the collective mind of the 'real world' had to offer.
How could they cope,
especially when they knew what it can be.
when they've glimpsed the world beyond
Its like moving the translucent curtain covering a painting. What you see, the colours richer, the expressions so much more vivid; what you see, without the dull grey film, is such explicit vibrancy.
And then, how do you return, to mediocrity;
and survive it.

reading material for the interested: 
creativity and mood disorders
artistic creativity and bipolar mood disorders