Girl Walking on Wall
The wall in front of the girl was infinite. It was black with pink edges, and over its edge was an unending horizon of blank nothingness. And yet this young schoolgirl, her miniskirt flowing in the inexplicably-blowing breeze, straddled along the corner of the wall and paced down its forever-long pathway.
Around this wall was white, and nothing but. It was as if nothing existed outside the wall, and this girl. This girl, whose gray-blue hair would have looked out of place, were it not the only hair in existence. Her beauty was without comparison, but only because there was no comparison to be found.
Why she walked down the wall was without reason. Her expression was as blank as the expanse around her, and it was impossible to tell what was going through her head. The enigma of this scenario grew and grew as time went on, until it finally became clear:
This story was some sort of metaphor for something.
You did not truly consider it until the middle of the second paragraph, but by the third, it became clear that this schoolgirl, walking atop an infinitely-high and oddly-colored wall, had to stand for something greater than itself. There were an uncountable number of possibilities for what this scene could mean and what the author was trying to convey to you through it, and you considered all of them.
The folly of man, or man’s insistence on persisting on the same cycles of living in a life full of monotony, the lustful nature of man and its disgusting tendencies towards newly-blossomed females, the disorganization of the human mind and its scatterbrained taste for color, the mediocrity of most anime television series… the list went on and on and you could not figure out exactly what the author intended.
But then, you realized, you yourself were part of this story now. You were the one that was being made into a metaphor. It was you, all along, who were supposed to stand for something.
You tried to figure out yourself, and what you represented, and if you analyzing the girl walking on the wall was part of your character, or if it was designed to teach the audience, whoever that might be, about some sort of message or theme or symbolic political statement.
It came over your mind the possibility that you may not be a real character, and that you are simply a figment within the mind of some author, being used as a surrogate for the person actually reading this story. Your mind could barely take this thought, and you tried to cast it aside as quickly as possible… but you couldn’t. It plagued you.
As you thought and thought, the girl on the wall lost her balance, stumbled, and fell off into the white infinity surrounding existence. Within moments, her figure faded away into a blip, and then disappeared from your sight entirely. If that was supposed to mean anything, you could not figure out what.