People stared at him strange, he felt. They glared and glowered. They whispered, about me, about my strangeness, he felt. But then even he felt the strangeness even more, the colour had no words, the world had no words and yet he had written words for both and more. This puzzled him even further. His earlier insubordination, he in his mildly pleasant manner had understood and resolved as plain and pure curiousity, once resolved, he would be able to return to his parchments and his robes; but now he felt strange, strange and uncertain, a feeling even more ancient to him than strangeness in itself. The memory man is taught to never be uncertain, to never waver in a word or phrase. The memory man is taught to be aware of feeling, the depth and intensity, but amidst such feeling he is taught to be stoic and unaffected. The memory man is taught to be unfazed and unfazed is how he is.
“Your name, Sir”. “Excuse me Sir, your name please”. Their voices were pinpricks of urgency, dizzying in light. The world zoomed pressing in its presence. The words were not enough,the blue was not enough. A page was blank,yet again. The years of mild,pleasant working had left him too mild and pleasant to have met change. The overwhelming incomprehension whaled him. The centuries of stoic,unaffection and indifference, he in his mildly,pleasant manner had understood and consoled as a necessity,a service, heroic at its best saintly at its worst. His job was his most logical and ideal option. He would rather spend his time in afterlife productively as any mild and pleasant martyr would do that being a boring booring ghost as any of the other dead would do. The mild and pleasant man then became a mild and pleasant memory man. His only affectation his absolute love for the colour, Blue. The others called him, Mister Blue. He called himself, Mister Blue, alone in front of the mirror; a shy smile, a quiver in his voice was all he allowed himself to feel. “My name is Blue”. In all actuality, Mister Blue had made him giddy, the warmth doubled back anytime he heard himself as that, but that amount of activity would have been inappropriate for a man of his mildness and pleasantness.”I am Blue”
The strange and uncertainess was warm and bubbly, now, new and unlike any other but warm and bubbly all the same. His eyes widened a bit more after every blink. His wonder the same. The worst insubordination a memory man could ever commit, a sin so abhorred, the very mention of it is forbidden, was altering a story in any which way or form. He had did that very sin, so abhorred, so forbidden. He had written himself into the story as mildly and pleasantly as he could. The blue had not been enough,neither the words, was how he consoled himself.
The actuality he hid in the deepest,darkest wells of himself but the doubt still lingered, an outbreak of chills across the back of his neck, maybe he had actually wanted to be more than a memory man, maybe he had actually wanted to be in an story himself without having to watch and write every minute moment of another.