My monologue fits perfectly.
It fits, because I see, not only myself, but you, as well.
It talks of your kitchen table and your family.
It talks of how I feel petrified if I can’t help you when trouble arises.
It talks of our annoyance-wrapped-affection for Darius.
It talks of what you mean to me.
I doubt I’d keep it if it didn’t have those elements.
It’s a strange occurrence, since it was a creature of power that threw the play to me and said it’d be full of captivating personas.
But the one who holds the reins is not I, nor even the character written-
The gutsiness of it stems from the similarity to what I’ve felt, and the marvelous fact that you exist.
I fell in love with the monologue due to your presence that crept into the pages.
I’m getting creepy, I’m sure, in how I proclaim your spirit possessing some play I doubt you’ve read, but it keeps it from becoming the malaise some plays, when severely studied, sometimes become.
In how you are, you infiltrate things I do, and keep them exciting.
It’s truly helpful, as unbeknownst as you might be to that effervescent charm-
And I’m grateful.
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