I think art, and only art, of whatever form and capacity, has the ability to take something as ugly like pain and misery and transform it into of some aesthetic value. It tricks your brain for a moment to go beyond that pain, to escape the contents of pain and feel the context. It gives you an audience. A reader or a listener or an admirer. And it tells you about the humanity of your pain, that as lonely as you feel in this moment, someone else felt exactly the same. What you are feeling is not unprecedented. And for the first time, there is solace in being ordinary. Being like everyone else. There is still pain but there is some momentarily meaning. And you feel more. Something vague and indescribable and beautiful.