Survival is the first instinct.
Why are writers one of the most likely types to be eaten up by their emotions from the inside out, or even artists in general, or should I say creators, expression-ists, those who must expel or transform. Why are they the most likely to commit suicide? They have so much to offer. I am not talking about myself, but those whom I admire. I wish they could be content in that, but perhaps it's their discontentment which really makes them feel most alive and gives them purpose and a subject to focus on. Something to convert and transfer to be seen with the naked eye. It's what they live for, until their art fails them by emotions that loose their novelty as they rest in a familiar grave. Until their pain becomes dull, still there but rubbed by the conscious till it bleeds and declines, the mind has become so full it empties itself.