For each ecstatic instant, we must an anguish pay…”

by DRM

For each ecsta­tic instant

For each ecsta­tic instant
We must an anguish pay
In keen and quiv­er­ing ratio
To the ecstasy.

For each beloved hour
Sharp pit­tances of years,
Bit­ter con­tested far­things
And cof­fers heaped with tears.

Emily Dick­in­son

Sit some­day and watch the light­ning crack over a deep swamp. The flat water, seep­ing along the silty bot­tom, wipers to tin, turgid­ity turn­ing to vis­cos­ity; the dogged swamp tufts and shallow-rooted trees become spec­tral in the sud­den flashes of light.

That is our brain: the swamp waters are the spinal flu­ids that pulse through our ven­tri­cles, the light­ning the elec­tric shocks that course through the neu­rons and synapses, the organic swamp mat­ter our cor­texes, fed and warmed by the close, fetid liquids.

When you cre­ate, you set off a grand storm in your brain. You light the swamp up with elec­tric­ity, churn up the waters, push winds against the loosely-set roots, yank at the entan­gled grasses and dirts and bushes.

The swamp is afire.

Sci­ence can see it. Brain scans show that elec­tri­cal dis­tur­bances inten­sify along the ven­tri­cles in patients with psy­chi­atric dis­or­ders and in artists.

Artists can tell of it, in abstract and awed tones, the trans­for­ma­tion that comes when they are cap­tured in their work. It is the nour­ish­ment and the star­va­tion of the cre­ative soul.