A Monologue by Jean-Pierre Martinez
Isn’t this weather a bit peculiar? Dressing up has become a daily puzzle. Are we on the upswing or in for a downward spiral? Does bothering with outfits even make sense anymore? They call it “seasonal weather,” but does it warrant a chat? Regardless, we’ve got places to be, conversations to have, come rain or shine. If only we’d trust our instincts more often. We’d prefer lounging at home, snuggled up in bed, daydreaming about sunshine and rainfall. Yet, they claim we spend a good thirty years of our lives asleep. So just imagine. If we slept in. In any case, in life, we spend quite a few years talking to ourselves. And talking to oneself. When we’re children, we talk to people who should have existed. When we’re old, we talk to people who no longer exist. In between, as adults, we’d rather listen to ourselves talk. The other person is only there to echo back. We talk to walls that have no ears. We talk to dogs that can’t speak. We shout at the deaf, and we talk to the blind in sign language. Everyone talks at the same time. And when there’s nothing left to say, everyone listens to themselves at the same time. We talk to ourselves because we’re afraid of the dark. We also talk into the void, trying to fill it. If we’re lucky enough to have something to say to ourselves, we can talk to ourselves. Lend a sympathetic ear to ourselves. Listening to what we have to say is just as important as listening to what others have to say. So we talk to ourselves, and we listen to ourselves talk. But we don’t tell ourselves everything; we lie to ourselves. And when we’re very convincing, we even end up believing we’re someone… Thirty years sleeping. Life is a dream, at least half of it. The other half is a lie. With a few moments of truth that aren’t always good to tell. It looks like it’s clearing up, doesn’t it? It’s going to be a beautiful night. Look, we can see the stars. It’s like they’re talking to us. I’m sure there’s someone up there. People who talk to each other. People who talk to themselves. People who tell stories to themselves and end up believing them. People who also talk into the void. At night, sometimes, I listen to these celestial inhabitants. Do you think that one day we’ll be able to talk to them? Talk about the weather and talk about the rain?
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A sketch from the collection Like a fish in the air
Link to the collection for free download (PDF)
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