Imagine me, finding a comfortable position in this cushioned seat. I try not to squirm at the squinting epitome of curiosity in front of me.
This event is rare, as I am allergic to anything vaguely related to live cameras. I find it difficult to take it seriously because I am inconsistent. Hence, pinning me for an interview is like catching my thoughts for that temporal state.
“Hakuna matata” – I will mutter to myself.
She clears her throat, prep me with her spiel and went for the first question.
Where is your heart?
Why would anyone ask me that…? I wait for her cue (this must be some sort of joke). The growing silence is telling me otherwise. Okay, this is what you want.
“My heart is at my left chest, as what anatomy and biology taught me to believe. If you are rooting for that ‘other’ heart, trace it back at my veins. You will find my hypothalamus.”
An uninteresting answer. The reporter knows this; absentmindedly, she prods on for the next query.
How does it feel to be different?
“Uncomfortable. Lonely. I do have a friend who took the term ‘radical’ as a compliment. Unfortunately, I’m too old for such flattery. In my life’s context, being different meant silence. As much as I want to share my idea, I would have to choose the recipient. Not everyone appreciates my dry sense of humor.”
Books or people?
“Books. People are interesting creatures – I’m very much like them. But they tire so fast and easily get too distracted to pay me anymore attention. Hence, they leave. And I am left with dead people – people whose thoughts made it into books. That’s not that bad, is it?”
The reporter was about to open her mouth. Only she was interrupted by a young gentleman who whispered, “Miss, he’s not your interviewee…”
Flash fiction brought to you by me and this amusing prompt.