This is just a little snippet of something that came to me. Might be the start of a story; might not. Even if it could be, I doubt I have time to explore it. So I'm just going to put it here, for now. Maybe I'll come back to it later.
I used to tell stories. At least, I think I did. Don't know if I was good at it. Not the point. Point is, I used to tell stories. I used to put words together, make them into sentences, put sentences together, make them fill pages. I could feel the rhythm of the story, hear the melody of the words.
But that was when I still had a name. Don't have one anymore. No name, no stories. I think I still have words, but it's hard to tell. People won't speak to me without a name. Most won't even look at me. It's like I'm not there, but I am.
I'm my own ghost.