One can learn something from everyone. Everyone has a story. For artists, writers, poets, those stories are often told as confessions. Confessions of the past, of the present, of the future. Confessions of reality, and of invention.
The value or the quality of a story has less to do with its truthfulness than it does with its believability. Vantage point determines perception. Perception determines belief. Belief determines reality.
It is not proof, proof of anything, to which artists strive, which artists offer. Proof is highly overrated. Artists place your fingers upon the pulse of their lives, not to prove they are living, but simply that you might feel, feel, from your fingertips to your heart, from your heart to your head, what they feel.
There is an artist in me. My confessions come with tears. In my conceptions, you have beheld the avowal of both artfulness and artifice. The writer in me requires solitude, exile, and cunning; the poet, these, and Muse-obsession.
Beloved Muse, let us cease, to begin anew. Now, in exile, let us explore depths even more profound, heights even more soaring. Some angels have horns. Some devils have wings. The angels only leave me when I smile; the devils, when I weep. In testament to my devotion to you, my fingertips confident in the stream of your inspiration, may my writing flourish. Only she by a poet loved will never die.