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 lov’d—I lov’d alone—
Then—in my childhood—in the dawn
Of a most stormy life—was drawn
From ev’ry depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still—
From the torrent, or the fountain—
From the red cliff of the mountain—
From the sun that ’round me roll’d
In its autumn tint of gold—
From the lightning in the sky
As it pass’d me flying by—
From the thunder, and the storm—
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view
Alone by Edgar Alan Poe
Edgar Allen Poe understood Isolation. He dealt with sickness as a child and couldn’t participate with his peers. I guess its true, when its difficult to interact with others, it forces one to look inward and become introspective. I’ve noticed that in my life too. But I think Poe knew the value of writing as therapy Writing helps me get my negative thoughts outside of myself to see if they’re valid or not? I wonder if Poe felt the same way?