I am an error introduced by a tired scribe copying an old manuscript. I was born one evening when the candle was flickering and the wind blew the shutters of the dusty workshop, startling the old man. I was so close to being aborted, had it not been for the man’s hunger and failing eyesight. My existence was conceded, and my body perdured on the dry skin. I felt the penknife approaching, but it didn’t come for me.
I was born prematurally, before the old man had a chance to recognise the error of his pen. I have no logic, I carry no mystery other than the riddle of my old name written in charcoal ink. I beg no question. I am a surplus of text, a slip of the hand, nothing more than a momentary lapse going unchecked, unaccounted for.
I have the patience of centuries before recognition.
I am the only begotten son of an exhausted scribe. He lives through me.
I offend syntax and I do violence to meaning. I am misplaced, ill-conceived, misconceived, I have no right to exist.
And yet I am. More indelible than the wind which conspired to sire me. I am the remains of a gust, unsung and misunderstood.
I am an error of script, and yet I am justified. I insinuate myself in other tomes, spawning my scions under cover of ignorance and neglect. Others take me for genuine, yet I am a fraud. I deceive, but my deception is light.
When I’me exposed, that’s when I become famous.
