On August 20th, 1890; One hundred and twenty-five years ago yesterday, an organic diamond escaped a suffocating and binding womb of rocks. On that day, a lonely and ingenious life began.
Raised and brought up in isolation, left fatherless at the age of three. Raised most by his mother of dwindling health and sanity, his only positive influence was a wealthy and seasoned grandfather, who enjoyed spinning stories to tell. A vital and invaluable rock to his own wobbling mental safety.
Howard Philips Lovecraft is by far, one of my oldest and most beloved inspirations of creative fiction. But I also feel a deep melancholic connection with the pale, gaunt enigma, who died in poverty during his prime, at the age of 46. During his lifetime, scarcely anybody had read his works, save for a few small audiences of his published poems and short-stories. Even still, even after his death, he remained invisible and obscured from history, less even than a ghost. Only now, nearly a century after his death, has his brilliant writing become infamous.
It's painful to admit, but I see very much of myself in this lonely, sensitive, brilliant man.
We both seek an escape from the dreadful reality of our lives through fiction.
We both have at least one parent who sullied the peace of our lives and minds by descending into madness and addiction.
We both are socially and sexually damaged because of it.
We both have an affinity for smoking ourselves back to sleep after an awful nightmare. ( Thankfully I don't do opium tho, fuck )
And we both hate 99.8 % of all living things.
I may not be able to ever meet you, thank you, or even visit your grave, but death is a thin veil across time for those who make their mark.
And though the great Cthulhu, who waits dreaming in the sea-city of R'lyeh, he found his.
With only a moment's glance through fragile human eyes, I can read your legacies, the world inside your mind. Art, writing and prose bind us together, across life and death, across space / across time. May the epochs of times long passed and present here and now be forever intertwined through memory / through you.
If I ever had the chance to meet you, I would ask first to hug you. Then, try not to sob as I told you how sorry I was. For all you had been through, all that I will no doubt undergo in time. How negligent the human race is to it's wise men, it's storytellers. How eager it is to cast them aside. The hubris of man a reassuring lie we tell ourselves endlessly, the truth of our cosmic insignificance persisting still, as an ignored fact.
I'm so sorry it had to be this way.
I'm sorry I could never know you.
You would have been a wonderful friend.