The art of madness

The artist stood back and looked at what she had done. 

She knew it was good but it wasn't yet DONE. Her arms ached and her eyes were blurring but she was compelled. It was a fierce hunger. A leg-twitching drive that couldn't be stopped until it was right. Eating, sleeping, other people - all these were irrelevant during this manic phase of creation. Over and over she would tweak. Stand back, look, tweak again. She knew it was a disease but she couldn't stop. Not until it was done.

And then, oh then, that blessed moment when the last piece clicked and it was DONE! That was what she lived for. The euphoria was intense. Like nothing else she knew. Life went instantly from grim to light, a whole-of-body lightness that let her dwell for a few hours in perfect bliss.

But it was never long before that little throb started again and once more she would descend into the madness, desperate to "make" to reach the high. She knew she was addicted. She knew it would probably kill her. But she didn't care. She would rather die than give it up.

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