I found myself burdened today.
Bewildered with a heavy realization.
To gain stature, one must eat, knowing that procuring nourishment is not an optional endeavor.
There is always an open seat at the table of humility, but the shadows of haughtiness and ego are prone to obscuring our line of sight.
Today was a day like any other, where, I felt compelled to walk. To walk out of the confines of a fog that would otherwise be inclined to suffocate me if I allowed it to.
So, I opted to make a pilgrimage to the grave site of Edgar Allan Poe, arguably one of the first of a series of well-known American writers to make an attempt at earning a living through writing alone, which resulted in his abbreviated life and career.
Subsequently, Poe wasn’t truly appreciated until his passing, a fate I’d like to avoid altogether.
I found myself wondering…
Is there a literary titan inside of me yearning to escape?
I stood there like a shell while my thoughts coagulated, but I felt inspired.
I’ve heard that making a trek to Poe’s grave is one that every writer should endeavor to make.
Who am I to argue with that logic?
And I had an epiphany.
The foundation of the paths that we walk.
Tend to be constructed by those who have no vested interest in our success, other than insuring that we give back more than we take.
Is that too much like right?