Edgar Allan Poe. The king of depressing literary works. Or so I call him. Many years ago, I read The Raven. Recited it out loud to my reflection in the mirror. A perfect, dramatic, interpretation of the poem and yet, no one was there to witness it. I was alone. Like the man in The Raven with no one but a bird of bad omens for company, I was alone. No one would listen to me. I was alone.
You see, loneliness is something that creeps up on you. You don’t notice it at first within the first day, but it settles on you, it festers in you, and by the time you notice that you have no one, it is already too late.
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