There are times when the artist must take some time to reflect on their life; to view inconsistencies and nurture them back to health. With college coming to a close and my two employers requiring more time, I am constantly micromanaging my time for just a brief escape into the creative realm. Some days I will write and edit with a gun to my head. Other times, I relax and wait until the next opportune moment (which may not arrive until days later). As you can see, the apparent inconsistency for me is time, but I have become so adept at this management; so much so that it hardly phases me. No, my true flaw is lack of experience. And I am bound to change that.
This is why I went to Massachusetts. I desired to connect with great minds in literature and history, even if they are dead. If one is inclined enough, a dead man's (or woman's) aesthetic can be easily exhumed for study. Anyone can pick up a book and read (which is what I've been doing for the past two years now in the form of critical analyses) but that was not the case. I needed more. Nothing, not even God, could withhold the goosebumps that arose on top of my skin when I stepped foot in Dickinson's bedroom; when I graced The Old Manse, knowing that Emerson and Hawthorne penned a revolution in one solitary room; when I ventured into Walden woods to breath in the exhaust from Thoreau as he built his cabin many moons ago. Some may consider this trip an elongated yawn of a period that they will never live within, but for me, it was a nourishment of the soul. I, tangentially, became apart of the American Renaissance.
Even if it was for a weekend, I was able to fill the void of experience that I so desperately craved. It gave the trip a more particular significance knowing that my girlfriend enjoyed it also. I try my best to use Transcendentalism as a 'model' for my writing, so this trip was well-timed.