Hangstory

Carmichael Crespo, 10th- Newbury Park, CA
Edward will never know he doesn’t exist. This Edward works in a tall library but doesn’t enjoy reading. Because of what I say after the next comma, he never will. For a facade of a man, one who exists only in words, he has some wisdom.

How many stories can be told in four sentences? How many stories are there in all the buildings? All the libraries? I knelt on my carpet and picked a scab off my lip, the blood fell on the page and spelled out these words, this is a run on sentence. 

Like the urge to be careful in conversation, I find it hard to resist a hangnail. It isn’t the nail which hangs, but the skin. If we can call it a hangnail, can we not call this carefulness a hangstory? Its nearness to its origin decreases the more one indulges it, and the regret becomes clear when the blood starts to flow.

How many conversations have remained empty, unfilled with real worlds? How many “How are you” end with an answer the asker and the other will never remember? How many people exist only in moments moved past by all others? Is this what I am to you, a sentence that goes on and on but never enters reality, as you do, am I only these words between commas, if I end a sentence with a period, will I cease to have a voice? 

I’m here, on this page, but only as long as you read it. I wrote the first paragraph of this page, at least, I would have if I’d’ve realized this sooner. The “real person” will write the conclusion, my time is ending. Goodbye.

I suppose I was wrong about Edward, which isn’t truly possible if I did invent him. Where did Edward come from? My mind? His?

Perhaps you invent Edward with your thoughts. You decide if he wrote these words, or if I did. You decide how many sentences it takes to tell every story. For a person who exists only in thoughts, you can still see the sun.