Inventing Mysteries

The problem with your life,
Mr. Poe said to me, is that it
lacks mystery. And so,
you must invent it.

May I call you Edgar Allan? I asked,
to which he nodded. But how
does one invent a mystery for oneself?
If I am the inventor, that means I know
all about the scheme, and, therefore,
it is no mystery to me.

Ah, that is the crutch of the matter,
he said.

Crutch? How can that be the crutch,
like a tool one uses to help you walk
when you have a broken leg?

You misheard me, he said. I said
crux of the matter. And I think your
leg isn’t the only thing
that’s broken.

I looked down at my legs and saw
that neither was broken. It was
undoubtedly a mystery.

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