A Chorus of Lonely Objects

Here lies a Chorus of Lonely Objects I was forced to cut from my play. 
"Forced" in that everyone who ever read it said "This is a great play if you cut the chorus of lonely objects."
Forgive me for not having room for all nine of you to speak.
You are now just props in someone else's scene. Inanimate.  
Remember that I loved you because you were bad at giving monologues, not in spite of.
You will be missed, if only by me.
Definitely only by me. 
But still.
I'll miss you all the same.


I want to protect you.
More than anything I want to keep you safe, and clean, and okay.
There are so many things, so many things, so many many things trying to hurt you.
But I stand in their way.
I hold you and I stand in their way so they can’t get you.
I do that, for you.
I know that - I hear that - pain is good. Ultimately.
That hot oil splatters onto you and burns you but then it heals and you’re better for it.
I hear that spots will stain you and then they will come out, no worse for wear.
I hear that.
I understand that.
But these things will still find you, I suspect, on their own.
When I am not around.
They will find you and you will experience pain and you will get stains all on your own.
Wherever you are.
So while I’m here, while I’m around -
I’d like to hold you.
I’d like to protect you.
While I can.

I’ve heard it said - a kitchen saying -
That using a sharp knife is safest, it is the dull knives that trip up and cut you.
But this I think is full of shit.
Of course a sharp knife will cut you.
Of course I will.
This is obvious to me.
This should be obvious to you.
I want to cut everything.
I want - powerfully within me - I want to cut everything.
There is nothing I will not cut, if given the opportunity.
You know this about me.
You should know this about me.
I do not try not to cut things.
I try to cut things.
Any things.

I will cut you if you are in front of me.
I am honest about this.
So should you be.
And then we will be fine.

(S/he drips.)

I don’t... last very long.
I don’t... know why. That is the case.
But it is.
I am here.
And then I am gone...
I am not a metaphor.
I know what that is.
I am not that.
I am real.
For a moment.
I am real.
I am hard and solid.
And then I lose myself.
I am cold and hard and solid and real -
And then I am warm for a moment -
And then I am gone.
Where do I go?

(S/he drips into oblivion.)

No one remembers me.
It’s okay.
It’s okay.
I keep going.
I don’t need much attention.
I don’t need much at all to keep going.
I just do.
I don’t know how not to.
Keep going.
I just do.
I’d like to do something else, maybe.
I think there’s something else I’d like to do.
But I can’t think of it.
I am flying. I think.
And that is nice.
I am hungry. And that is nice too. In a way.
But maybe there is something else that I want, far away?

(FISH yearns to think of something else to want that is far away.)

But I cannot think of it.
I am here.
That is nice.

Exactitude is very important to me.
I like to be specific -
Exact -
I’ve been through a lot.
A lot.
But I have always kept my focus. My razor-sharp focus.
I pick pick pick at exactly what is my object.
I do wonder, sometimes, what it could be like to be...
Slovenly -
I imagine it would be fun to be sloppy.

Every now and again.
But that’s not me, is it?
That’s not me at all.
It would be fun to try on, but that’s not my type.
My personality.
My nature.
And I don’t believe we can fight against our nature.

I don’t like to admit it, but, I feel incomplete most days.
On my own, just as I am, I know that I am enough.
I have every shape, every line I need -
Already I am complete, I am bound, I am complete -
But when someone comes and colors me in -
God it feels... You have no idea.
Waiting to see what color they’ll pick
Feeling that color scrape itself onto me -
Even outside the lines -
Sometimes it’s even better outside the lines -
Even if they just scribble - !
I’ll take it.
I know I’m fine on my own - perfect on my own -
But I feel so much better when someone opens me up and colors me.
Sometimes, afterwards, they’ll rip it out -
Whatever they just colored on me.
If feels...
Devastating. Horrible.
The ripping... You have no idea.
But I’ll take it.
It’s worth it, that pain, if it means being colored on.
Sometimes they’ll pick the most absurd colors -
No sense! At all!
Something I would never dream of for myself!
I can be so linear, so stuck in my own ways -
It is so good for me

To be colored in.
There’s something important I like to remind myself, every so often.
Almost anything can be sparkly and jeweled,
But almost nothing is.
This is a responsibility I take very seriously.
I get the sense that, for some, being looked at is bad?
Like wanting to be looked at is bad?
And I just don’t understand why!
Almost nothing that is sparkly and jeweled is bad.
Think about it - can you think of anything that is sparkly and jeweled and bad?!
Why is it bad to want people to look at you,
When looking at you will make them happy.
I don’t get it.
And I’m not sorry.
You should look at me.
You should want to look at me.
I will make you happy.
I will do anything I can to make you happy.

(S/he smiles brilliantly.)

Can I -
Is it okay, can I tell you something?
I like being curled up.
At first -- not at all.
Everything in me told me to lie flat.
Stay low, hug the ground, melt wherever you find yourself.
But then, after spending so many days rolled up.
I started to like it.
Twisted up into myself.

When I’m unfolded now - unfurled - it is...
I think, like, you can get used to almost anything?
And now, it’s like -
I can’t even be flat anymore.
Once I could.
But now?
Even when I’m flat I start to curl -
A little.
At the edges.
It’s never really been the same.
I can’t stay rolled up all the time or I get restless, I can’t lie perfectly flat like I once did -
So I feel. Forever. In between.
I wish I could just pick one.
(S/he sighs luxuriously.)

Sometimes, someone closes me.
And it is marvelous.
Sometimes, someone opens me.
And it is incredible.
Sometimes I am left alone for long periods of time,
And I think I am so lonely I could die.
But then the sun comes and kisses me.
My tenderest lover.
It always comes for me.
I forget and think I may die and then it comes for me.
How do I always forget?

(S/he yawns as sunlight fills the space.
A new kind of daylight.)