I wrote this a few months ago. For some reason I deny the fact that they’re words of meaning (to me) and are just plain words of fiction.
“This is an unexpected turn of events. I feel like speaking out and expressing so much that has been supressed for so long. These aren’t my words; it’s too quiet here. My name doesn’t matter and age is a stereotype. You will learn about me through my reactions, otherwise known as my biased written words; anything I say could be a string of lies, but I ask you this: have I any reason to lie?
“Will you read my like a book, read through the lines, or take everything at face value? Figure me out like a puzzle. I’ll certainly give you the pieces. I dare you to try.”
I have nothing more to say or add to that. Too much time has passed to explain why ever I wrote that.
Your eyes still try to search for mine, but I look away.