Notes & Stuff (That Probably Won't Amount to Anything)

A Stranger

I've always been a storyteller.

I wonder when it was, though, that it became easier to tell somebody else's story than it is to tell my own. Sometimes, I sit in the dark in my bedroom, listening to traffic going by outside and the annoying squeak of my ceiling fan's rotations, and I wonder what I could even say to begin to tell my own story. Is there even a story there? Who the hell is this character that I'm playing everyday?

I honestly don't know and that's really unsettling to realize.

If I met me out there in the world today, right now, I wouldn't recognize myself. Except maybe by the wide hips and easily recognizable mole on my neck. But I couldn't tell a soul a thing about me beyond the basic facts. I'm not even sure what my favorite color is these days.

There's no definitive list of qualities that equals me - that equals Hannah.

Hannah is a stranger.

And I think the hardest part is realizing that I'm not even sure if I want to get to know her.