Dear Mr Leonard Cohen,
I got to know you rather late in my life, but it could’ve been worse – I could never have been introduced to you.
You see, I’m constantly pushing to get a little spot in the sun, a bit of recognition, a ray of happiness, but I’ve come to the conclusion that all of that is terribly overrated, isn’t it? Not that I’m any less ambitious or competitive now. It’s just that I’ve kind of accepted that depression and they greyness it brings isn’t all bad. Writing poetry isn’t a bad thing – provided you don’t write crap poetry, which I very well may be doing – it’s simply an outlet and apparently it’s always better to let things out than keep them in.
And sometimes the best thing to do is just to listen to your music, Mr Cohen, and have a lovely fat cry. Doing so also protects the rest of the world from my potentially awful poetry. Thank you for your music, your voice, your talent.
When I grow up I want to be like you. You are the reason I write.