My name is B, though names, like stories, are only the surface of a deeper unfolding. I am at the tender precipice between becoming and remembering, standing knee-deep in the tide of thought, trying to catch meaning in a sieve.
I am, without apology, a worshipper at the altar of stories. A collector of echoes, of frames frozen in flickerlight and songs that sting sweetly in the chest. I do not draw boundaries between the sacred and the trivial—because I do not believe in triviality. A comic panel, a late-night sitcom rerun, a digital avatar reaching for the sky in pixelated dusk—each, to me, is a kind of scripture.
To call me a pop-culture addict is perhaps too clinical. I am a lover of shared mythologies. Of the voices we choose to listen to when the world feels just a little too sharp. I believe that art wears many masks: paperback and vinyl, joystick and jersey, dialogue and silence. Art is not a gallery. It is a pulse. It is anything that leaves an imprint on the soft architecture of who we are.
And so I write.
I write to remember. To understand. To give shape to the things that shaped me. I write of films that taught me grief, of books that stitched constellations into my skin, of games that gave me choices I never thought I’d make. I write not to explain, but to offer. To share the golden thread that winds through these stories and maybe—if I’m lucky—connect it to yours.
You, reader of screens and souls, are not a stranger here.
You are a traveler like me.
And if anything I offer here lingers in your thoughts after the tab closes—if a line, a scene, a name whispers back to you in the quiet hours—then we will have done something sacred.
We will have shared meaning.
And that, to me, is art.