Edgar Allan Poe (born Edgar Poe, January 19, 1809 – October 7, 1849) was an American author, poet, editor and literary critic, considered part of the American Romantic Movement. Best known for his tales of mystery and the macabre, Poe was one of the earliest American practitioners of the short story and is considered the inventor of the detective fiction genre. He is further credited with contributing to the emerging genre of science fiction. He was the first well-known American writer to try to earn a living through writing alone, resulting in a financially difficult life and career.
The description above is a short introduction on who Edgar Allan Poe is. The one and only author (in my opinion) who has single-handedly gave millions of innocent, curious people a new hope- an inspiration, and more importantly a huge chance to be as bold as he is.
His writings have touched my soul, in a creepy, sadistic manner. Though he was known for his tales of mystery and the macabre, his poems, as well, have been one of the very reasons why I continue to do what I *hope* I do best.. You get the picture.
As I was violently pressing my fingers against the keyboard of my laptop, pitifully trying to fight boredom and be entertained with what the people nowadays consider as "entertainment", when in fact they are just mere alternatives of what is really the meaning of being entertained, I almost hated myself- I hated myself for not being more productive in the sense of praising the classical works of E.A.. For instead watching a whole load of rubbish. Yes, it was as if I wanted to dramatically go down stairs, into the kitchen, pretending that it was night, with the dogs howling and the moonlight shining onto the eyes that sparked out of darkness- my eyes. The eyes that spoke of what must not be spoken, and as I enter the gloomy aura of the kitchen in which I do not normally feast in, I spot a knife- a blade as sharp as my tongue, and a threat to many, just like my curiosity. I then slowly pull out the knife, and bid my last words of not-wisdom, and then stab myself with the regret of not having anyone to witness it. I know, this post is getting a bit morbid. In fact, I sort of feel like E.A. Poe is proud of what I am coming up with.
Moving on to what really matters.. I immediately typed "EDGAR ALLAN POE" on the search bar of Youtube, and boy, have I found a lot of new videos uploaded by the other fans of the Master Of Fictional Misery (What?). Poems, short stories, and biographies were recently uploaded to the website and I have watched each and every one of them, until I have found my new favorite-
I am going to assume that a few readers/viewers are not pleased with what they have read/watched. It is fine, no one could please everybody- not even the master himself, E.A. Poe. At least I have spread the gloriously unusually strangely addicting works of who I look up to, with regards to the field of literature.
Oh, how I wish to be as good, or even close to being as good as E.A. I sometimes find a quiet place, sometimes at night even, trying to find the perfect mood to come up with a short story that falls under that of misery and horror, wishing to terrify yet entertain at the same time, the minds and emotions of those who believe in dreams within dreams, and those otherwise. I, for one, will strive hard, being as hard-working as a tiny ant that carries a food a number of times its weight in order to survive- ignoring and fighting with all its might the abusive rain, the jealous majority, and the disgusting aspects that might contribute to the phase of giving up, in order to fulfill its every need, I too will be a striver, and in time, a proud and progressing achiever. That time, my friends, will come. Your patience will be of great significance to the goal I wish to reach- no matter how long it will possibly take.
I am above the weakness of seeking to establish a sequence of cause and effect, between the disaster and the atrocity.
It is by no means an irrational fancy that, in a future existence, we shall look upon what we think our present existence, as a dream.
It is the nature of truth in general, as of some ores in particular, to be richest when most superficial.
It will be found, in fact, that the ingenious are always fanciful, and the truly imaginative never otherwise than analytic.