Friends Among Gods
Some nights, the world feels unbearably quiet. The city sleeps, yet your mind roars like a storm that refuses to end. You stare at your unfinished canvas, your half-written poem, your broken melody and wonder if anyone will ever understand what you’re trying to say. It’s like speaking a language only the gods remember. But maybe that’s exactly what art is, a secret dialogue between mortal hands and divine silence.
An artist’s brain is a complicated place to live in. It’s not a peaceful neighborhood, it’s a city that never sleeps, where emotions riot and thoughts spiral into each other until they become something that can’t be explained in words. Artists deal with emotions and topics most people don’t even notice exist. They see longing where others see rain, they see eternity in a streetlight’s reflection, they see truth in decay.
And that’s both the gift and the curse.
Most artists are born with an unusually sharp sense of observation. But often, that sensitivity doesn’t come from comfort. It’s a byproduct of childhood trauma, rejection, loneliness, and the desperate need to make sense of it all. A child who had no one to talk to often ends up talking to colors, to words, to melodies. They turn pain into poetry. They build worlds because the real one didn’t feel safe enough. Having both a high IQ or EQ sounds like a privilege, but in reality, it can be exhausting. It’s hard to connect with people who live on a simpler emotional frequency. You try to explain your chaos to them, but they only see static. And so, artists often retreat, into silence, into art, into their own private language. If you’re going through that cold, heavy time right now, if you’re questioning whether any of this is worth it, listen closely. You’re not alone. The art gods are watching.
When you drag your tired body to the easel after a day when nothing made sense, and you still manage to add that one last stroke to the canvas, Van Gogh smiles a little and says, “It’s going great so far!” When your story gets dismissed because someone couldn’t even read past the first paragraph before commenting, it’s not that your writing is not engaging. It’s just that Ramanujan has found a friend in you. The structure of your thought might be too divine, too sacred, for casual minds to hold. And that’s okay. You’re not misunderstood because you’re broken. You’re misunderstood because you’re building something divine, something that speaks in a frequency too high for most to hear. You’re building a wavelength that connects directly to the gods. Picasso once said that art washes away the dust of everyday life from the soul. But who washes the artist’s soul? Perhaps it’s the ghosts of those who came before, Van Gogh, Sylvia Plath, Kafka, Frida Kahlo, Kurt Cobain. Artists who bled beauty into existence and were misunderstood for it. When you paint through your pain, Frida is right there beside you, nodding. When your poetry feels too heavy to share, Plath gently places a hand on your shoulder. When you write something too honest and people look away, Kafka understands.
The truth is, every artist is a continuation of another artist’s unfinished sentence. We all carry fragments of those before us. Maybe that’s what immortality really is, not fame, not galleries, not applause. But a secret chain of creation, where one soul whispers to another across time. So, when you feel invisible, when you start to think no one will ever understand your work, remember this: you are not creating for the crowd. You are a in conversation with the eternity. Every brushstroke, every line, every chord is a message sent through the ages and trust me, someone up there is listening.
You are not alone. The gods are with you.
A present
This scene from the movie The man who knew infinity made me write all these. If you haven’t watched it already, Its a present.
Really enjoyed this, great writing and thank you for sharing!
This is beautifully written and beautifully expressed. Thank you.