would you still read what I wrote?

If I were here, talking of joy
had not a shade of pain to share
Would you still think of me?
And of what I wrote, what I thought?

If every time I wrote, I won
and wrote not of any fall...
I would write but erase all pain
and all you read was joy,

If I would not write
of experience, dull and bright
but sound every day, right...
my days however, in spite...

Would you still read my words?

Glorified is pain... in art and words, in real and unreal...

Is that what we are here for? To suffer in vain?

Isn't the smile, sometimes hard to find, the meaning of course?

Isn't joy, the point of life? The whole purpose?