I thought I liked being alone.
Away from stares, and questions and insincere laughs. Away from strangers who claim to have my acquaintance. Away from those who claimed to have a share of my memory, to have stayed in those gardens, counting the lilacs I had tended. Away from eyes that feign to have discerned the meaning in mine. Away from those who believe they know why I laugh, or smile quietly. Away from those who get uncomfortable by my silence, for it reminds them perhaps of their own vacuity, and rush in to destroy the peace with lame accusations or words – trifles.
But it’s true that I’m forever talking in my head, or thinking, even as I gaze mournfully at their blurry faces. I have my own stories to tell. But I do not now how. I wish to be a great storyteller, putting my listeners into a…
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