When one creates, one decimates.
At the origin of anything there exists unlimited raw material (in all states, whether natural or otherwise), and like an aberrant bust this material is necessarily beaten and subtracted into shape. Imagine a living organism born underground, confined by clay, and what happens next.
Creation and death are codependent forces; pain and sacrifice the blues with which the immutable creator complicates the reds of the eventual sunset.
Rarely is there joy in pain, but pain is essential to the proliferation of joy — for the genuine joyous experience is culled out of loss.