An Existential Angst

I sat there again. I took in my surrounding, sat back, and relaxed, occasionally laughed a little when something funny crossed my mind. I like that spot as I can see and hear everything without being seen. Unless, of course, someone pays attention.

And apparently, someone did.

I don’t mind usually if anyone sits in front of me and talks in loud voices, unaware that I listen to every words they say. Even if they block my vision to where I put my protagonist, S, sitting on a chair regularly. I can send them away on a whim just as I sent S away to run some errands that day.

Because they don’t see me anyway.

Or so, I thought.

As I jotted down some notes I sensed a presence. I dismissed it at first, thinking that whoever it was would go away as soon as I set the scene to vanish in a couple of paragraphs. But this presence started to nag me, insisting at the back of my mind, until I could no longer ignore.

I looked up and saw him, sitting in front of me, looking at my direction. I looked around trying to figure out who or what he was watching, until it dawned on me that he was indeed looking straight at me.

I gulped. I made a gesture of pointing finger at myself and raised an eyebrow in a silent question. C’est à dire, moi?

“Yes,” he nodded.

He stared at me silently for another minute, while I was staring back, before he finally spoke, “I need to know something.”

I raised another eyebrow.

“Why did you create me?”

I blinked. I blinked and then blinked again.

I looked at him earnestly now and began admiring his beautiful, pensive, and somehow melancholic eyes. A strange pang of guilt infiltrated my mind as I voiced the answer.

I don’t know.


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