It is said that all writers, poets and philosophists have at least a tiny streak of melancholy in them. Is that true? Does melancholy drives wordsmiths to their peaks? Or to the Valley of Death beneath? The gloom it gives, is it a muse, or rather a wolf in sheep’s clothing, a Siren in disguise, luring them to slaughter?
I admit it, yes I am one who gives much to Thought. Perhaps too much Thought that it becomes self-destructive, like a tiny little maggot eating at the heart of my heart, slowly worming its way out. That little maggot might just reproduce and eventually consume me relentlessly. We’ll never know for sure until the maggots are out, won’t we? Thought leads to Self-Doubt, and this can kill or maketh a man. To prevent such a needless fatality, the heart would perhaps have to be armoured against such. Never ever let Self-Doubt worm its way it. For once in, then Adam would have consumed the apple under Eve’s naviety and bedamned are we all to the bowels of Hell.
Be gone maggots! I will not have ye here!
Out damn it out!