Alone

From childhood's hour, I have not been
As others were - I have not seen
As others saw - I could not bring
My passions from a common spring

From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow - I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone
And all I loved, I loved alone.

- Edgar Allen Poe, "Alone"

It is strangely comforting to know that Poe once felt the way I feel. He knew the darkness like few others. I know darkness, too. I am its cold, windswept, barren heart. Of course, I have a tiny fraction of his immense talent. If I could fashion the darkness around me into some kind of art, then my sorrow and loneliness and pain would serve a purpose. Instead, all I have is a blog that few will ever read. This is true loneliness. To be surrounded by people, and yet feel no connection to any of them. I suffer within a darkness that others cannot even see. The world, it seems, is coloured differently to me.

Even as I write this, I am filled with despair. My writing is so bland and uninspiring and pedestrian and stupid. I live in a darkness that I can't even adequately describe. How sad. How very sad.