"No Greater Love Than This" was, by far, the most difficult thing I've ever written.
Not just structurally or artistically, but the entire thing. The pain and the process. The long nights and weekends, writing, re-writing, and dredging up memories that I'd hoped I'd forgotten but hadn't.
It obviously deals with some of the most painful parts of my life, the worst of all moments, but more than that it forced me to, in all of it, find hope. It forced me to ask myself what it was all for, if anything.
And that's not something I'm very good at.
If it wasn't all for something, if I learned nothing, than everything was a waste.
Every day was a waste. I am a waste.
But if I could learn something, if I could, even, teach something, than I'm not a waste. My life is worth something, anything, and worth sharing.
But isn't that what life is about in the first place? Isn't it about finding meaning where there isn't one? Isn't it about identifying patterns that make you happy and saying, "I like these patterns and I want more of them"?
I think it is. Some of the moments of my life were painful, but they led me to a point where I can find more patterns in the noise, more moments in the static that are pleasant, joyful, and allow me to love and be loved, whatever that means.
I hope you are able to extract from the story a point, if not the point, because maybe there never was one.