An epiphany struck me tonight, as its kind usually does for me while writing and reveling with whiskey and inspiring music.
Thinking thoroughly about and through my vice (and its consequences) of writing grand romantic letters to my Muses, I finally came to understand that compulsion of mine and see it under the light of a heroic virtue than a romantic flaw.
Yes, I’m a writer. Yes, I’m a romantic at the core. And yes, I’m a fantastic failure in romantic matters thanks and because of my best efforts to make my romantic gestures and efforts symbols and epitomes of those ideals. But none of those points was a revelation–those are just facts that almost fall within public knowledge.
No. My epiphany was much more delusional and recursive, yet accurate and immensely more valuable under my proud ethics. What I accomplish with my letters, my words, my writing gift, far overreaches that egotistical goal of making them fall in love with me. That may be my intention, but it’s never the true spirit of my letters–and certainly not the result, as proven by plenty of cases in my life in which my missives prompted my dismissal by my Muses.
I ultimately understood that I don’t write grand romantic letters that make my Muses fall in love with me. No. In reality, I write grand romantic letters that accomplish something much more romantic–I make my Muses fall in love with themselves again.
Such is my writing gift.