|| The Master of Monologue ||

|| The Master of Monologue ||

I am the master of monologue.

What this basically means is that I talk to myself. Quite animatedly. Gestures, change of tone, dramatic emphasis, I have the public as my audience. Those ignorant passerbys of course cannot appreciate the genius of talking to oneself; why can’t they just be honest and admit it? They want to do the same as me. Expressing, publishing yourself to the world!

I am Vincent. I will tell you the story of the loneliest man in the world.

Right now I am sitting in a hub of early wakers. As misty morning fog smelt into their bones they shiver to erase the grog of sleep, rubbing nose into newspapers. Some legs are coiled, some violently open, but all are closed in their own world, hands clenching inked paper that puffs out with every cold-wracked breath. I rise and walk past. Nothing to pay attention to. Knowing the world is not in my interest – inviting things to my world is what peels my eyelids open to this insufferable weather every day.

As usual my attire is impeccable. Black: clothes. Silver: accessories. Sombre atmosphere? Never, with the smile that clings on my lips. No one can misunderstand my intentions with such a smile, surely. But perhaps I am in more of a mean mood today; my chin drops and I am leering. Visualization comes with manifestation. Face a naked blade, clipped gait. Exuding enough airs to ward off the pretty girl coming from the opposite side. In fact she is more than just pretty; she is exactly what I look in a woman, long black hair and slender, eyes that could bite. Is she looking at me? No, never.

We both cross each other without a word, a further glance. I stiffen my neck to stop it from turning – just a sigh, a forlorn smile and a brief clench of the fist is enough to douse that short lapse. Laughing out loud washes all of it away, and I remember to love only myself. Love! Thrusting my hand to the sky I spin silver on my ring finger: you are married to yourself, Vincent. A mantra. A mantra that plays itself whenever I forget. A mantra that is tailed by a maniacal grin. To complement that madness there is a rush of content. Unfathomable, unknowable yet overwhelming just for that moment; I exert this change of mood in minute amounts. Finding myself seated, I have a finger trailing the edge of the fountain, connecting dots to puddles, heels shifting left and right rhythmically like a crude dancer.

People glance; I tell myself I do not care. Why should I care? Screw them and their judgmental tendencies – their quirked eyebrows, comical visages of suppressed giggles. They are mere victims of their own repressing – what harm is there in having pride that I do not hide myself in veils? Nothing!

After another hour of enjoying myself in this manner I flourish to my feet; there are too many suffocating the atmosphere for my liking. On the way I catch the resident cat following my tracks, and greet her with a clawed hand. Queen of the Park decides to deign my presence unworthy by a turn of the head. Quick as it comes the rueful smile is gone from my face, as I have other matters to think about than feline arrogance. Silly cat.

Oh, no.

Is that you, Laura? Why are you here? Oh shit. Not ready for this meeting – I know I never will be! - I recount my actions. Did I make myself look a fool? Why were my hands swinging by my side! Attempting to be natural I drywash my hands and blow on them – cold, and getting colder by the second.

At the last second I make it known that I recognize her. She is genuinely surprised. Unlike someone who has eyes everywhere, she is truly oblivious to her surroundings. A small relief.

- Vincent! It’s nice to see you early.

Did she always have a mental image of me lazing around in my room in the morning? But my silver tongue is always at work; a silver tongue that practically flicks with no real thought.

- You look brilliant than ever, Laura. Did you sleep late again?
- It’s Alexis again. He won’t let me sleep. . .

A giggle follows that sentence.

I have nothing to say to it. The acid frothing in my stomach is killing me. Almost makes me warm enough to forget I can’t feel my toes anymore. But as ever I have managed to bend my lips up.

- Such a child. A woman needs her beauty sleep! You mustn’t spoil him so much.

Why am I having this conversation? This question is cued by another stab to the stomach. The pain is noticed; she actually holds my arms. There are sixteen different voices in my head reacting to this casual touch. Some are unspeakably explicit and some are mild. All of them are unacceptable. Don’t touch me! Hug me! Kiss her! Take her and run! Stop talking!

- What is it? Where does it hurt?

The question evokes unsuppressed mirth. A madman would cower compared to this laughter.

- I suppose you were always slightly light in the head.

She says it with a smile.

Fuck it all. Fuck Laura. Fuck Alexis. Fuck me. Fuck everyone!

Why am I still alive?

- I have to go. It was nice seeing you. Try to take care of yourself, even if he won’t let you. Lock yourself up in a room or something!

I don’t give her the time to reply, and I could care less.

Almost running, almost walking, always escaping. Cold air squalls and wrecks the mess of my room as I shove open a window. Maybe I should have been lazing around after all. As warmth surrenders and dies, so too does my will to stand. I crumble against the bed – by accident my scarf tightens and chokes me, and I rip it off. Useless piece of fabric! No, no – the useless one is me.

That’s right. I am no one. I am nothing.

Express? Publish? Tell the world what?

That I am nothing.

I want my coffin- no, I do not even want a coffin, I would probably prepare my own stack of firewood and oil and lie down on it myself. Lay down a score of fireworks and light them up with one fuse. A final spectacle.
I actually have another mantra for these situations.

You are no one and nothing; how to forget come easily if there is no one to sing a dirge, if there is only black.

I sigh in content. It is true – I make it true. I hope it is true.

Inflicting this pain on myself a few more times, I snuggle into my bed and blankets. Let myself rot the time away. Away for. . . Nothing. But I am nothing. Nothing. . .

I wake.

It is actually another morning.

I smile at the situation. It is not rueful; it is not hateful; it is not blank. It is whole, and my heart beats with it.

I cannot know why – I do not bother to find out why, I believe it better not to know why.

If there is only black.