Not a “Dear friends” as usual, I will only talk about the hate that Joe Alwyn has to suffer from the Golden Globe because he is no longer someone’s muse.

In the popular imagination, the “tortured artist” is a figure perpetually shrouded in gloom. The so called “tortured artist” must suffer so that he or she has the right to write a sad song or whatever they do must relate to sadness. We assume that to write a devastating heartbreak ballad of all times, or a poem of tragic proportions, one must be currently shivering in the cold. But there is a more nuanced reality experienced by many creators—a psychological “gray zone” where one can be deeply, happily in love and life. still produce their most tragedy work.

This is not a contradiction; it is a profound artistic vantage point. As a writer, I have the right to feel and being an empath. I like to write about sadness and melancholic concepts because I am able to feel and to see it. It is the ability to witness happiness in a beautifully sad way, shaped by the memory of depression and the vastness of imagination.

There is a Japanese concept that describes what I mean: Hikari no naka de kage o egaku, or “Drawing shadows while standing in the light.”

When we are in the depths of a depressive episode, the world is too loud, too heavy, or even too numb to translate into art. True creativity and expression require a certain amount of a reserve of energy that only comes with stability and peace. When you are happy in love, you are standing in the light. From this position of safety, you finally have the clarity to look back at the darkness and trace its outlines. We all learn through failure and sad moment. The light only stands out because of darkness.

The “gray zone” is the space where your current happiness provides the steady hand needed to sketch your past sorrows. You aren’t reliving the pain, you are only translating it. By standing in the light, you can see the shadows more clearly than when you were standing inside them.

This perspective is deepened by the idiom Hana ni arashi (Flowers have their storms). Derived from the proverb “Hana ni arashi, tsuki ni murakumo”—flowers have storms, and the moon has clouds—it suggests that beauty and tragedy are inextricably linked.

As someone who has experienced depression, happiness is never shallow. It is seasoned. It comes and goes and it’s a part of us. You see the bloom of your current relationship, but you are aware of the storm that exists in the world. This doesn’t make the happiness less real. It only makes it more precious. This awareness creates a specific kind of art: one that celebrates love while acknowledging its transience. It is the “beautiful sad” way of seeing—the realization that the most exquisite moments are often the most fragile.

Writing sad songs, sad poems, sad whatever while happy is an act of profound empathy, imagination and creativity. It allows the artist, or us, to tap into the universal human experience of loss without being destroyed by it. Depression acts as a library of emotional references. Even when you are no longer a “resident” of that depressed sadness world, you still hold the “access card.”

Your memories are yours. You can visit those feelings, borrow them for a poem or a melody and then return to the warmth of your lover’s arms. The art produced in this gray zone is often more resonant because it is crafted with the precision of a survivor rather than the chaos of a victim. It’s precious because you get through it and now you witness it with another point of view. We do not need to be broken to create beautiful, tragic things. In fact, it is often our wholeness that allows us to explore the broken parts of the human condition with such grace. By embracing the gray zone—by drawing shadows while standing in the light—we honor the full spectrum of our lives. We acknowledge that the “storm” (Arashi) is always a part of the “bloom” (Hana), and that our ability to see both at once is not a burden, but a gift.