A Monologue
By: Angel

So yes. Here I am over at Fiction Press. Me and my LOVELY new FFnet nickname - Angel2. Yes. Angel2. I am no longer special. I am number 2. *sigh* Anyway, for those of you who are reading this, thank you. Really. Thank you for giving me an opportunity to share my work with you. I appreciate it very much. =)

I didn't really know where to put this on Fiction Press. . . this is attributed to the fact that I'm a newbie on this site. My first home is on FFnet, but originals must be submitted over here. So here I am. Anyway, this is a Monologue. Not a poem. That is why it is in paragraph format, and not in stanzas. Not a poem. Which is why I stuck it in the Fiction section, instead of the poetry section. . . Yes? Yes? Work with me here people. =)

There are random [ ] boxes like that, dispersed around the monologue. Those are action boxes that tell the actor what to do in certain parts. Don't know if those really exist in real monologues, but I thought they were handy. They give you a feel for how this would be performed, if it were to be performed. Also helps to show you how "powerful" it can be. Hehe.

Well. onto the disclaimer-hey, I don't even need one of these do I? Hmm, force of habit I suppose. *sniff* How sad, how sad. . .

Anyway, enough of my BS and onto the Monologue (that is not a poem). Got it? Good.

Enjoy. And as always, please R/R. Arigatou, minna-san. =)


To Whit,
whose email inspired this monologue.
Arigatou aijou. . .

By: Angel

Sometimes there's so much power in words that it can make you laugh or smile. It can make your lips quiver and your eyes water so much that you'll cry, or fill you with so much compassion that you don't know what to do with it all. Sometimes those words can be filled with such hatred, that it makes you shake in fear or quiver in anger.

Sometimes you read something as simple as an email, scanning the words with your eyes. . . Memories jogging in the back of your mind; Coming, rushing, flooding back to you so fast that you're overwhelmed, and don't even know what to do with yourself.

You just sit there, staring blankly at the words in front of you. . .

Wondering what was, what could have been.

Wondering if somewhere in that sender's mind is the memory of this event, this plain email. . .

The words are there, exposed, bare, naked, for the entire world to see.

It doesn't run, or shiver, or shudder, scrambling for cloth to hide its nude form.

Words are pure. Words are calm. Words are hurtful and deceiving and vengeful. Sometimes even happy. Exotic. Filled with passion and an ecstasy that only the reader can feel deep within them, their hearts and souls filling with the swelling, surging, raging heat, making them ache for more.

We are part of a lustful relationship with words. We read, we want, we desire, we yearn for more. Need more. It sometimes feels that words are our very breath and without them we'd die of asphyxiation. [in desperation] So many words, so many emotions, shooting through my brain at the speed of light, all of them equally desiring my attention and I desiring the emotions that they bring, it almost makes me want to. . .

[book slams shut]

[gasping for breath]

Just breathe. . .

They have overtaken me. The words, that is. These words have become so powerful that I am helpless, defenseless, prostrate; I am completely vulnerable, unprotected, sprawled out for the entire world to see...

I am exposed, bare, naked, like word. . .

I have become, "word."

I have become the most powerful force of expression known to man. I am whole, yet incomplete. I am filled, yet empty. There is a piece inside of me that is broken, torn, missing. . . I feel empty inside without it. I cant remember what it is, my mind is falling away from itself. . .

[in desperation] I am panicking now, desperately wanting someone to come to me, to touch me, to consume me, to release me from my emptiness. . .

What is this?

What is this!

[breathing heavily]


[breathing quietly, in realization] I have become, "Word."

I have become the one devoid of emotion. I can say that our relationship with words is almost sexual, but I wont mean it. I can say that our relationship with words is almost ecstasy, but its not. Words are, in themselves, nothing. It is the emotion that we associate with those words that give them their significance, their luminance, their power.

That is why I am empty. That is why I am barren. Words are insignificant without those who see through them and give them life, those that compose them and give them significance, those that search and yearn for their meaning...

Without them, I, "Word," am nothing.

Suddenly my mind snaps back to the present. I am still sitting in my chair, watching the cursor twirl as it happily as it has always done. Staring at my inbox, reading an email, just an email. . . Staring at the words that I have given power to; Wondering why, wondering, always wondering. . . [beginning to cry, read rushed, in desperation] The revelations fresh within me churning, writhing, flowing through me, through my very core, my very soul. . .

[breathing heavily]


[still crying quietly]

But something stops me from believing Word. . .

My own personal revelation. . .

If words are so insignificant, then why am I crying?

[wipes eyes and sniffles]