This is the beginning of a song about dreams, which I wrote while on a plane. I am not going to finish it, because songs about dreams are a veritable bear-trap of self-indulgence. But here it is anyway:
Had a dream last night about a woman I didn’t recognise,
I was drowning myself to save her life,
and I loved the way that the scene unfurled,
but nothing’s so poetic down here in the real world.
So tell me darling, what’s in a dream,
only the bulk of my self-esteem,
during darkened hours, sights so fair,
every morning awake to nightmares.
but is autumn the emptiest of seasons?
The north sea winds do not favour it,
but in the town I call home, it is sacred.
I revel as my lungs fill,
with a glorious mingle of scents,
the warming wisp of a farmers bonfire,
the gentle decay of surplus chestnuts,
and as I tread this carpet of oak and pine,
my old friend nostalgia drops by.
A thin haze rests on the air,
finally the world sees through my eyes,
and the gentle pinch of winter coming,
only stokes the home fires further.
Hello. This is Ben speaking.
What’s this blog for, and why is it called Distance?
The purpose of this page is to be a small public window into the mind and notebooks that contain my artistic movements. Most of the things visible through this window will be poems, songs, short pieces of prose and other wordy things, but there may also be pictures or songs. Who knows where we’re headed…
So why distance? As a writer, I chow down on various emotions, all of which are directly affected by the concept of distance. Distance from fulfilment, home, God, love etc. define what we feel, and it’s these emotions that are the basis of any form of art.