Feelings
A week to win (A candidate’s monosyllabic monologue)
By Emmanuelle
I know you.
I read what your eyes see. I need not go into you. I need not wait for your lips to shape your thoughts out loud. And not only you I see and feel. I see the rest of them. I feel them. I had watched over them. I had looked out for them.
For, as you led me to you, I led you all to me. So the leader is the led. And the led leads.
Thus I say to myself: These souls and I are one. But there are some who are not. That one over there; he lies, he spies for his friend. The friend is out for blood. But, oh my, for blood not only mine. He thirsts for mine and what has since joined mine. And there are those who, like moths to a candle, wait. For me to fail, to fall. And to bleed! The ground is no less than five feet. Down, not up. A fall shall cut. Deep.
On the tenth of May, I shall know. Who saw me, who felt me, who watched over me, who watched out for me.
But these days, I have a week at most to win. Let me bask then on a fate, which shows no face. While it still is not bared to you and me. Each new soul I meet whose hand I shake, and each old friend I hug close to my heart . . . is a son of the sun, he be in the dark or he be in the glare of its light. We share this air, he be half-dark, half-light.
To this crowd, I spoke my last a short time past. We prayed and laughed and shared the same warm breath. To this same crowd, I gave and I gave and I gave – my thoughts, my deeds, my plain pale self. And in the midst of it all, the rain had burst forth, its drops plump and strong.
They say, it was poured in wrath. They say it was a gush of grace. I reached down. I felt the earth. Its wounds, cracked dry, had half-healed.
The rain was grace, just masked by its strength.
If I can see, if I can feel, why can you not? This place had been shown the best! This land had been spared the worst!
One pays one’s way to one’s Fate. And Fate has a way that is no sane way. It turns round and round and round, and it twists like a snake’s pit, then it bends to an end. Then far from where it had gone puff, it starts.
I wish I could find that same way, and the time, to reach more of you. And to let you read what is in my heart: We are blessed for the life that we breathe. There are lives not born, not lived at all. What we have is more than we have none of. Add a grain to more grains is a bowl. Pour a drop to more drops is a glass. Smile and the whole world smiles; or at least this part of it. And a wiped tear is less salt to the sea.
Do not sell what we have so rare.
When you read this, I shall have won. Or I shall have lost. I shall be prince in the eyes of men and beasts, and girls who kiss frogs and turn them to kings.
Or I shall have dropped to my knees. To fall flat on our dreams.
(Authors’s Note: This monologue was written using words with one syllable.)
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