There is art for art's sake, and whatever other subjective vagaries of the artist, which I love.
There is also love, which I yet might aspire to, and the stories of love and the pain of loss which I am as prone to lose a tear for as anyone.
I have lived through too much, though, to believe that the hope inspired by such stories is the same as truth. Hope in the face of the darkling inevitable is important, yes, but it is, in the end, empty. What is required by life is strength of self, the will to fight regardless of ultimate impotence, the desire to scream out so all can hear, "I am alive, and I will not surrender to fate the authorship of my life or the meanings I give it!" Nothing I have ever seen or felt has convinced me that there is another world awaiting me beyond death, so I cannot act as if one exists that is more true, more right, more real than this one. That is the stuff of fairy tales and moral plays, not of the world of sober adults acting responsibly.
Again, I have to say that I love a good story. I just don't live in one.