Only now do I come to learn of Lovecraft’s life history and it saddens me, every aspect of it save for the literary endeavors he endeavored on, but even they do too now that I think twice of them, because he couldn’t achieve in his life the fame and acclaim that has been given to him now, after his death; from his father’s psychosis that had him institutionalized to Lovecraft’s own untimely death at the hands of intestinal cancer, it’s all just too depressing. That he had to quit his high school education because of a mental breakdown (of which there were numerous more to follow throughout his early teens) is another woeful fact that renders me torn at the writer’s tragedies. Why do they suffer, those who are touched by fire? Is it the fire’s doing, the suffering? Does it have to come with the package? Are there no happy people, or people with happiness in their lives, who partake in the writing of weird fiction? Is the burden a gift, in camouflage, or actually a curse in its shallow form with no subliminality?

You who opened our eyes to the infinitude of the universe and what it withheld (knowledge that would have been better left ungained, but now that we know it, we’re better off initiated than uninitiated), you will be missed.