I Couldn't Tell Ya

I couldn't tell him anything.

 

 

 

 

Mystery Man: Whats your name, child?

Me: I don't have a name.

 

Mystery Man: How old are you?

Me: I don't age.

 

Mystery Man: What school do you go to?

Me: Schools dont want me.

 

Mystery Man: What are your aspirations?

Me: To write.

 

Mystery Man: Do you write often?

Me: Yes.

 

Mystery Man: Do you like it when you write?

Me: Sometimes.

 

Mystery Man: Sometimes?

Me: Yes, sometimes.

 

Mystery Man: Do you have friends?

Me: I don't know.

 

Mystery Man: Do you have feelings?

Me: Yes, but I don't think the rest of the world knows that yet.

 

Mystery Man: Are you hungry?

Me: I don't eat.

 

Mystery Man: Are you thirsty?

Me: I'm too dehydrated to drink.

 

Mystery Man: Do you feel hatred?

Me: No, only longing.

 

Mystery Man: Longing?

Me: Yes, longing.

 

Mystery Man: You haven't told me much.

Me: I never do.

 

 

Reviews

[EverEmma]

I am reminded of a reader-author relationship. It's not about the writer itself but the story they tell. Their everyday norms are neither acknowledged nor matter. That picture on the back of your book is their only image of you. But you can choose whether you want to show them that or not.
Because what you do doesn't matter; all that matter is the story.

Was I way off?
Or was there not even any symbolism here?
Hmmmm...

Emma