Columns
BANKS | A Mirthful Endeavor, Turned Mellow
|
For a while, I tried to convince myself that I was low-key enough to be unfazed by the prospect of writing my final column. As it turns out, though, I was delusional — in part thanks to my neurotic obsession with amassing words. After all, the retrospective seemed too ripe, the scope of experience too swollen and the space too meager, for all that I had left to say. I spent several days wondering if I could feign a cool nonchalance towards this whole affair, but I’m finally ready to submit to the truth. Yes, the cold, bitter truth, which quietly resides in this vanishing specter of a columnist — writing from a present predestined to become the past — wails and pleads for freedom from my mind.