I think the best mood for writing is a heavy feeling that's a

Perfume Genius once spoke with rare honesty about the source of his art: “I think the best mood for writing is a heavy feeling that’s a little bit removed from you. Sometimes I feel very self-indulgent and bratty and ungrateful, and no good music comes out of that. But sometimes I can be really sad or have an excess of feeling yet somehow be able to see the big picture more.” These words reveal the paradox of creation: that true art often arises not from comfort or indulgence, but from sorrow, distance, and reflection.

From the dawn of humanity, those who gave the world songs, poems, and stories were not those shielded from grief, but those touched by it. The bards, the prophets, the poets of old—all carried burdens of heart, yet transmuted them into words that endured across generations. The heavy feeling that Perfume Genius describes is akin to the weight the ancients knew: a sorrow or longing that does not crush but refines, that draws the soul out of narrow selfishness and into a vision of the greater whole.

Consider the life of Vincent van Gogh. His days were steeped in loneliness and anguish, his mind troubled and restless. Yet from that excess of feeling came sunflowers brighter than fire, starry nights that swirl with eternity, canvases that seem alive with both beauty and pain. He was not lost in mere self-indulgence; rather, he stood at the edge of sorrow, able to step back just far enough to paint not only his own torment but the universal cry of the human heart. This is what Perfume Genius names: the distance that allows the big picture to emerge.

The danger, as he confesses, lies in indulgence. When the heart is consumed only by its own petty discontents—when one is “bratty” or “ungrateful”—creation falters. For true writing and music are not born of shallow moods but of depth. They require the artist to step beyond mere ego, to stand at the threshold of pain and yet gaze outward. The sadness, when harnessed with clarity, becomes fuel for expression; the same sadness, when wallowed in selfishly, becomes only noise.

His words remind us that the finest works are often forged in the crucible of suffering, but not by suffering alone. The alchemy lies in being able to step slightly apart, to look upon one’s grief as though it were both personal and universal. In this act, the artist becomes a mirror for humanity. Their pain becomes our pain, their song becomes our song. It is not indulgence—it is offering.

The lesson, then, is this: when sorrow or heavy feeling comes to you, do not bury it, nor drown in it. Instead, take one step back. Let it pass through your spirit and then release it into form—into words, into music, into work that speaks beyond yourself. Guard against pettiness and entitlement, for these shrink the soul and silence creation. But let true emotion, when tempered by reflection, guide your hand and voice toward something greater than yourself.

Practically, this means cultivating both honesty and discipline. Write when the feelings are strong, but pause long enough to gain perspective. Do not mistake indulgence for expression. When grief or joy overwhelms you, ask: how does this reveal the larger story? Then set it down with courage, for others will see themselves in your creation.

Thus Perfume Genius’s words are not only about the craft of music—they are about the art of life itself. For every soul is a creator in some form, and every soul must learn to carry its burdens with just enough distance to turn them into light. May we, too, transform our excess of feeling into offerings of beauty, and in so doing, see not only our own pain but the big picture that connects us all.