It is a rather profound, almost controlling, feeling, that of being alone. Or, rather, lonely. Rarely are people truly alone, but so often, so incredibly frequently, are they lonely. Some surrounded by people, ranging from few to thousands, yet feeling this ever pressing, constantly persisting weight on their shoulders that each one of those few or few thousand are less present than the individual requires or desires.
And in that desire, that overwhelming idea to find someone in the midst of everyone, the loneliness creeps silently with a poisoned dagger and a kiss of ill will. Swooping up to the side of the individual, scavenging for one moment where the engulfing mindset of singularity can be overcome by the briefest twinkling of plurality, that in that moment the shadows should drown out the light, bleeding out every lingering shred of hope held out by a taunting hook of a dream, one should be forced further into self-indulged isolative torment.
All alone, yet surrounded by many. Wearing joy as a mask over a crying soul, masquerading hopefulness in desperation, both the few and the thousands surrounding the accursed watch in suspicion, but without question - watching with willing blindness toward the one begging to have the weight lifted off the time worn shoulders only to have the scales grow heavier by the ever-watching, unaiding eyes of the crowd. As if it is even their problem to solve, that is – as it isn’t. The isolation of the accursed is almost always self-inflicted.
Yes, it is a rather profound, nigh controlling, feeling – that of being alone. Yes, alone. For as enraptured as the accursed has forced himself into solitude, he has diagnosed himself as unclean and unworthy of affection and of love - lost in a trance forged in the shadowy corners of an empty room. But how could one dare assume plurality without first being secure in singularity? As such, the accursed are condemned to walk alone, forever hoping that a hope could one day return the light stolen by the shadows until one in the crowd makes themselves known.
Trying a "slightly" different style with this monologue. Took away the personalization like my others had, forcing it into a third person "omniscient" view whilst overdramatizing and personifying many of the aspects as opposed to using analogies or examples seen in earlier monologues. Lemme know what you think (especially compared to priors such as "It's Ok" and "The Show Must Go On").
We live in a small town. One of the smallest, actually. No more than a few hundred residents located way out here in Woodsville, much unlike the major metropolises like Treetown or Woodstock. They house millions of us. But even those cities, the largest ones, pale in comparison to the world’s capital – it houses one. No, not one billion, not one thousand. Just one. One man. Yes! A man! They say he’s the only one – the Carver!
He lives in a modest log cabin out off in the midst of the woods, with a wide, darkened door at the center. The door never opens, though. Yep, that’s right. He never comes out. Not once…at least since our kind has been ‘round. There are small doors, though, just on the lower part of the door. Almost like a log-dog door, if you will. Two of them. The one on the left opens hundreds of times a year, when a new woodling is born (but more on that later). The door on the right almost never opens and, when it does, it is opened for a woodling to return to the Carver, but no woodling who has entered ever exits again.
Back to when we are born- over the thousands of years, we have had various experts try and determine how, exactly, we come to be. We know we come from the Cabin, but not much else. Some say the Cabin is just a myth. A part of our imagination to explain the concept. Few hold that view. A rapidly growing view, though, is that there is no Carver. I know! But many believe this. You can’t entirely blame them, though. No one has ever seen him. Most, though, believe in both the Cabin and the Carver and that, every so often, he finishes up his newest carving and releases it upon us – a new woodling!
I would tell you of what is inside, but no one knows. The cabin has no windows to peer into and no woodling has ever been able to speak of what happened inside. I really wish I could let you know- I’d love to know! But I guess that’s where my story leads.
First, more about me and about the “woodling way.” I am what is called a Forester. We are supreme members of the woodling government, much like a mayor or governor. Each town, when reaching a residence of over 100, is assigned a new Forester. They are responsible for record keeping, maintenance, and general management of the town. I have it easy, here in Woodsville, but the Forester in Treetown often have many Assistreants to manage various things.
I’ve been leading Woodsville for roughly 250 years, now, give or take a few. Very few residents here ever move on to Treetown or Woodstock, often enjoying the quiet, but, every now and again, there comes one little woodling who takes world by storm. On other occasions, there’s a woodling who makes himself remembered for other reasons, neither good nor bad.
I’d like to tell you the story of the life of one such woodling, a dear resident of our Woodsville. His name is Lucus – yes, with two u’s. He is in the 3 tier billionth category of woodling .That is, he is somewhere between 3 billion and 4 billion – only the Foresters may know the exact year of birth. It helps avoid discrimination against the new carved.
Lucus wasn’t the…smallest fellow, to put it kindly. More round than slender. He couldn’t much help it, though. Just how he was carved. Some woodlings take solace in that fact, others become bitter toward the carver. Often times these woodlings retreat into themselves, though. They feel as if they are cursed or were made incorrectly. A “slip of the carver’s hand” if you will.
These woodlings are greeted with anything ranging from pity, love, or disgust. Some believe that they are perfect simply because they were carved, others feel bad that the woodling has such a downward appearance, and, most, feel like the woodling is a disgrace due to the carving “error.”
Lucus wasn’t the worst case I had seen in my years as Forester, but he certainly was not a blessed woodling. A short stump of a woodster, with elongated feet and large toes. Shoes were of a dark shade of green and his pants a slightly lighter shade of blue. His torso was, as said earlier, more circular than anything, with red blotches scatted about. People often mocked that they could push him over and use him as a ball…His arms, quite the opposite of the rest of his body, were gangly. If one only saw his arms, you’d think he were emaciated and sick.
His face, though, appeared to be stretched vertically, with just enough room to squeeze in the parts necessary. Mouth was like speck above the chin and nose a dot right above. His eyes were perfectly circular, with a faint bluish tint in the middle. And his ears? Drawn on, as if it stenciled in at the last moment. Worst of all – he was made of Grey Ash wood.
Lucus, just a few days after his debut, was transferred to me from another small town Forester nearby. He was too busy handling a rather bad case of mistletoe killing off some of the forest to handle a new woodling.
On his first day, he kept smiling as wide as his adorably thin face would allow. To him, there was no standard of beauty. He hadn’t seen many of our kind yet and no one had impressed their ideas on him…yet. He walked with such a bounce in his step down my office hallway, coming to see me. I pulled out his file and told him he would need to begin attending Wood Shop for the next few years, after which he would choose a career.
He nodded his head in delight, saying “Sounds great! When do I start?”
“Next week, if that’s good.” I replied.
I gave him a few additional details about his teachers, classes, and expectations, as well as his key to his temporary home, while in school. He then hopped out of his chair and began skipping out of my office, shutting the door behind him.
I’ve been thinking a bit about life. Not it’s inner workings, not which makes it tick. No, nothing so mechanical. Not of the grand picture, not the grand scheme of it all as some “force”. Not that either. Instead, I’ve been thinking of its fragility. I’ve been thinking of its versatility in adversity, its resistance under oppression, its perseverance despite brokenness. And then when it finally shatters. When, all too soon, it shatters- when life, this precious concept, breaks apart into an infinite number of pieces and becomes scattered across the floor, indistinguishable from worthless dust.
I’ve been thinking how something so valuable, so inherently expensive, can so easily be torn apart within itself, sometimes without provocation, and become nonexistent apart from the memory of what used to be. How life, potentially the chief of all good things, invariably transforms back into the chiefest of evil things without just cause or reason.
I’ve been thinking about randomness. About how such bizarre, disconnected acts, takes the most precious thing one individual, all individuals, possess and takes it and throws it against the wall as if it were some worthless toy meant to entertain an hour. How this randomness works in tandem with time, squeezing every last ounce of this jewel out of each possessor.
Oh yes, I’ve been thinking about the fragility of life. For in life’s brittle nature, we often see that which can take it all away. We notice how easily and arbitrary the taking of it is, yet we sit idle in our chairs, wasting away the seconds of this resource doing menial tasks hoping and praying that each second wasted will add up to something worth a modicum of what we spent to attain the trash. And those that lost it all? Those who time and chance thieved in the middle of the night? Would they not die a thousand more times over in order to steal back just a few more seconds of the time they wasted?
So I guess I might say I’ve been thinking a lot of myself.