We (writers) aren't the sort to keep our passions to ourselves, you might have noticed. We shout them from the figurative rooftops.

And it was at that age... Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.

I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names,
my eyes were blind,
( and something started in my soul )

Fantasy's hardly an escape from reality. It's a way of understanding it.

The fear of poetry is an indication that we are cut off from our own reality.

Nobody who says, ‘I told you so’ has ever been, or will ever be, a hero.