"I figure there's Heaven, Purgatory, Hell and then there’s The Blues..." Townes Van Zandt

We figure, every one of us, that there's got to be a little more to this, a little more, just beneath the surface - a way of seeing, of understanding that hits the vein and pulls the blood, tapping the root and pulling it up and out, where it'll mingle in the needle with a brand new sugar, form something completely fresh, and then slide back inside to break the news: "We did it. We made it happen.�

Everybody has their struggles. Who's to tell me that someone who wants to quit smoking has it any harder than someone trying to quit the needle or break the bottle – but then again, what addictions actually serve us and which ones kill us? How many do both?

I’ve witnessed far too many people creating art from a place of ‘addiction’ that was simply too real to be denied. I’ve been moved to tears by the words and music of so-called ‘drunks', sat around fires at festivals and listened to the rhythmic verse of people who couldn’t form a sentence if you asked them to – but goddamit they could sing.

It makes me wonder just where exactly we might be pulling this privilege from, and why so few people seem to be able to deal with it. I’m often reminded of a friend’s account of seeing Portishead live, of how Beth Gibbons started the concert relatively sober, but came sporting a jug of clear liquor in hand. By the end, he said, she was laid out on the stage, unable to stand, but hitting every note without fail.

Why is it so hard? Even those who thrive in the spotlight seem to have a rough time, inevitably. It’s a rare case in which we actually see somebody able to embrace a certain level of true artistry and maintain the ability to deal with it at the same time.

When you want to create, how do you go about it? What do you need to get you there? It’s always something, there’s no denying that. Whether it’s simply an organized work space, a self-induced state of mind or a cocktail of narcotics, everybody needs something to properly deliver them. And this is how we do it:

To unfold the day, first place your mind where it doesn’t belong. Slide your thumbs beneath the seams and feel around with your fingertips, groping for the hold you know is there. Ease the paper back, coax it from its place and lift it away, revealing layers you knew you’d find, but ones which greet you with an all new layout nonetheless. We have a fresh pattern now – new edges to be lifted, new folds to be felt.

From there, slip your fingertips beneath those new spaces and peel the paper away, yet again, coming ever closer to the full sheet we’ve been waiting for. The further we go, the softer it seems to get. Everybody wants a piece, everybody wants to sneak a peak. We are, all of us, looking for that soft, pink flesh that might just give us some idea as to which direction to turn, what next to believe in. And as we delicately pull away each and every separate day, waiting to see what we’ll find, we come to see something that not one of us ever expected.

I can listen to Van Zandt and Burnside sing the gin and pour poetry from their lips, and I can hear about the ruined mess they made of their lives. What I can’t do is understand why it always seems so necessary.