The storytellerpublished: 2010-09-26
Might I ask, oh mister storyteller, whether you woke up happy? Overjoyed, maybe? Because it is Sunday. The day you have been waiting for all week. The day you gently pull your costume of it’s hook. It’s own hook. You don’t store it in the cupboard, next to all your other clothes, the ones you don’t care about, that never need ironing, or folding. I mean, why bother? As all the other days you wake up, have your coffee, then sit behind your desk to write. To not write. To then get angry about writing and not writing. And to then sleep.
You used to be fatter, your black trousers are somewhat loose around the buttocks and thighs. Like the skin on your face, it has stretched in time. The silken sash with which you tie a bow around your neck has lost it’s shine. The bow hangs its head. Not you. Never will you. You drape your cape around your shoulders, gently place the grey top-hat on your head and nod to yourself in the mirror.
I am the storyteller, is what you tell yourself. I love telling stories. I love hearing what a lovely voice I have. I love people smiling at my jokes. Mostly I love it when they laugh out of fear, not entirely sure whether what I’m saying is to be taken as a joke. Such as that they really need to keep up pace. They do. Not many people can keep up with me. I love that too.
Any questions? I ask, and I love that nobody ever has one.
Might I ask, mister storyteller, whether you woke up happy this morning?
I could see the question in her eyes. I love how they dare not look back at me when I stare at them during the story of Thomas and Maria, of a broken heart. Of rise and fall. Of tragic fate.