A MONOLOGUE FOR A FUTURE PLAY
Sometimes I feel like I’ve given you everything. I wake up and I give you my smile. I give you my strength and energy by choosing to brush my teeth, talk to people, type away at work, help those in need, twirl around, shout about melodiously, learn a new language. I even pray for you. I keep myself clean for you. Well, in short, I choose to go on, you know, living, for you, when I could easily swallow detergent or drive super recklessly on a rainy night.
In return, you give me tired people, strangers, who prod me with their judging eyes and spiteful mouths, people who look at me then look away too quickly, people who see nothing in me but ugliness; people who are constantly repulsed by what they see above my shoulders, people who see things in black and white, people whose eyes don’t sparkle upon meeting me. Trust me, world, I smile, I project confidence, I ask, I listen, I’ve empathized, I’ve shared.
The question I have for you, is this: WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME? I have given you what I know to be everything. What else must I be? Nicer? More of an eye-candy? More assiduous? Calmer? More rebellious? More affectionate? More adventurous? I suspect, however, that nothing will ever be enough to appease someone as superior as you, world. I also suspect that it is for me to put an end to all my suffering that you want from me, and for me. If so, this is what I ask of you: make your last gift to me the courage to either live or die, for I can’t have myself stand in the middle forever. It’s dauntingly dark here where I am, in the middle. I wish I could pull someone in to fall with me—I think, you see, I think feeling awful about myself and about everything else has turned me into quite a pessimist.
One day, I expect to wake up with the courage to run across the street without looking. That might be the best gift, that you put me to rest. Otherwise, help me to find the courage to live.
