Brilliance, doesn’t everyone strive to be brilliant in one form or another? I, Edgar Allen Poe, am a misfortunate being, whose more often than not let his brilliance slip away. Perhaps it’s because in my long thirty-three years, death never ceased to stop following me. Living with my mother was a joy I’ve never known, having no recollection of her as she past when I was merely a child, while my father left months prior. I was taken in by John Allan, who I never quite got along with to say the least, and his lovely wife Frances Allan. I have tried many times to move away from places that harbor significant deaths, but death is unforgivable and relentless, happening anywhere without much care. New York is not the exception to this, in fact this is arguably where I had the most success in being a writer, yet somehow still managing to be fortuneless and naturally, death was evermore present.
Of course, maybe my less than life paid contribution in the arguable success of my writing, as it is one of my most inspiring themes. My beautiful wife, Virginia, has had her life claimed by death, along with both my parents, Frances, and even John who left me without a penny in his will. Perhaps I am the common factor, the
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She was all I had left, supporting me through my failed attempts at being published. Sadness started to spill its way into my writing, filling it with death and despair. Even when my own mother had passed, along with everyone else in my life, it felt like rejection. But Virginia’s death consumes me to this day, it is agony. I feel as if people can read it on my face as clearly as if I had told them; this man is broken not brilliant. It’s almost like I can see everything but it feels like my body is simply going through the motions with no feeling. Eat, sleep, wake- it’s all irrelevant. Time is of no interest to me and I find myself staring at an empty alcohol bottle more and more each