“In our endeavors to recall to memory something long forgotten, we often find ourselves upon the very verge of remembrance, without being able, in the end, to remember” – Edgar Allan Poe
Edgar Allan Poe is one of my favorite writers. His macabre theme has capture the essence of unjust reality and sweet defeat. I held my breath when I first came across Evening Star. An unlikely depiction of love unfathomably explained by the stars, it gave me sleepless thoughts.
What is so good about pain? About a painful memory? Poe in many of his writings often associated pain with the loss of a love one, the absence of insanity of the betrayal of a friend, but is that really what he’s trying to do?
Far from a sober demeanor, Poe knew much about something I can never comprehend. His writing is far superior from mine. In fact a lot of people can write better than me. The thought doesn’t sadden me but the realization that I can do better is a wake up call.
I still don’t know my niche in writing. Where I excel the most, I like editorials but I must admit speaking your mind too much distances you from yourself. I enjoy writing features but my pen lies whenever it plays favorites. Don’t we all?
In our pursuit to write something we neglect the reason why we have to write in the first place. I love writing much as I love reading but there are times when my pen refuses to work. I have never underestimated the power of words but I have doubted their motives, their unrelenting lashes to silence the minority. Yes, we do write to express but in the process we say things that are detrimental to our own hearts.