Glass Half Full Theatre asked for a two minute monologue containing ten spesific words, and even when this wasn’t chosen as the weekly monologue, they did enjoy reading it – so you might, as well. Ten words underneath the piece.
Brush teeth. Gargle. Make a pot of coffee. Eat toast, but it tastes like cardboard, soggy with butter and I only drink coffee in the mornings because I learned it should be done.
A habit, a routine, a repertoire.
This is the typical day.
But now I disappear. I have felt like this before. Like my essence was smoke from a chimney on top of my head, silently drifting out when passion burns inside the gut. I want you to love me, I want so desperately for you to love me.
I want to love you. But baby,
I don’t know how.
Brush teeth. Gargle. Make a pot of coffee. Eat toast, give up eating toast. Every food requires effort, and I can’t bring myself to do it. I don’t eat because I feel hungry, I eat because
it’s a habit, a routine, a repertoire.
Sometimes I get into the car and drive around town, with no destination, accelerate toward the ocean and the bend of the road, press the brakes two seconds too late and pant on the edge, knowing that if the car had gone an inch further, I’d be drowning, kicking the doors, fists bouncing off the windows and then, silence… and the tire of the car hits a round pebble deep within blue, we bounce once, and it’s peace.
The chimney is gone, then. My essence is here. I love you. I love you so much. On that edge, when the world is ending, I can hold your hand.
And then your eyes, passion, chimney on top of my head. Smoke puffing away. My body retreats in the nook. Brush teeth, gargle,
the neighbours have decorated with streamers, I drift through the colours
Ten words to include: