If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s this.
As far back as I can remember.
Loading up MS DOS and Minesweeper on the oval kitchen table in mum’s two bed ex- council estate terrace, grey yet slightly cream in colour contraption; anyone born before the early 90s would know that to be a Desktop PC.
Hours, hours and hours.
Perched on a glossed wooden chair that issued cheek stamps worthy of Polaroids, writing stories.
Princesses. Dragons. One day to be hopelessly saved from the evil witch and her dribbling accomplice. Rescued into the clutch of a world with difference that laid out striking adventure and prosperity.
But when you do it like I do, there’s always consequences.
When you think like this there’s always recompense. No matter how near or far from home the ride takes you.
I like to call it truth, others call it made up scenarios in my head. Wild fantasies that occasionally spill out like verbal shit. An uncontrollable imagination, so vast that something so peculiar is hard to denote, fathom or even come by.
Yet the harshest reality of a closet genius, is that honesty comes from a deeper neurological understanding, incredibly engulfing and precious that once the energy touches you, you couldn’t ever forget. Hope, wish, beg? No, those memories will never leave.
That’s why, at dusk, when all is still, arms for a pillow and feet curled like a baby, the unfortunate ripple of the distilled world continues to champion me with a unique grit of lunacy to speak and write without fear.