Forever Print

i can be accurately accused of many things — pretension, dilletantism, lack of empathy and many more. Some may even be accurate. Yet when I write — with what feeling I have, with emphasis, with passion enough to tear through my paper and stain my inevitably Arsenal jacket with black ink — I do so manually. Tempting though the BBC3 or Sonic Youth may be, I write, as I read, alone. Likely more so. Writing is an exercise in interiority, a journey into the hidden caverns of oneself, where the stalactites of experience fall to meet the follies of past times, echoed in the chambers of silent caverns.

I write with the attitude of a forgotten old man, categorized endlessly as a bitter and slightly bonkers fool alone in a windswept garret with a single candle sputtering against a Dickensian draught. I am neither old nor Dickensian, though the folly of my youth would a good story of his make, I imagine. No, I am fickle and bold, a traitor of a faith as ancient as its beginning and strange as birth. I’m a creature of my time, yet far outside it, orbiting a star I see dimly that some call earth.

~ by Benji on February 1, 2018.

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