Until I bled for something I had not lived. Before I knew what it was like to suffocate, the springtime air held no magic. I did not know the depths of sadness, or of joy, until I had loved with all of me, and lost it all in turn. The world around me is grey at first glance, but if I stare long enough, the contrasts become ever more pronounced, until suddenly I am gazing in awe at a rich tapestry the details of which are displayed across such a glorious spectrum of colors that it is a wonder to behold. Without death, life would have no focus. If we never hungered, food would lose its pleasure. And if it were not for heartache and betrayal, we could not know true love. Between these extremes of black and white, the opposite ends of the scale there lies more than just shades of grey. Each step along the way is a color of its own, graduating from deep and dark to the lightest of hues. It is with these, the bold contrast of extremes, that the lines and shapes of our world take form, while the shading and all that glorious coloring fill the expanse between. Only with the bad, and everything in between, can the good take on meaning for us, and become an object of beauty, a revered work of art. Art is comprised of all good things, and is defined by the darkness around it.