Retrospectively, my poetic inspirations were fueled entirely by my love of literature and philosophy. As I studied these subjects, virtually independent of my course work, I very physically felt as if my mind were massaged, physically stimulated. My surroundings, the people I knew, the activities I participated in were merely outlets for what was almost entirely an intellectual process.
My girlfriend frequently asks me why I do not write poetry for her as I once had. The answer has nothing to do with the depths of my feelings for her but the utter lack of mental, linguistic, philosophical stimulation I have received external to our relationship. These influences (T.S. Eliot, Joyce, Derrida, Sartre, Foucault, Rorty) were distinctly external to the visceral subject matter of my writing, and, unfortunately, without these influences I feel utterly unable to write, and, moreover, lack the desire to do so.
Kind of sad really . . . sometimes I wonder what I would/could have become if I had pursued literature and philosophy with greater vigor. But I quickly cheer from the realization that my present commitments have accomplished the extraordinary as well (deep participation in three death-row exonerations, a Masters Degree in Public Administration, and soon to be law school). However, I am beginning to feel my creative energies returning. The thought of the intellectual stimulation of Law School almost makes me salivate . . . equally, so too does the prospect of beginning life's incredible journey of marriage.