The Soliloquy of Being

There are a great many variations of the Soliloquy of Being. Some short, some long, drawn out, cut short, depressing, overly enthusiastic, the lot. There are a lot of ways to write a Soliloquy of Being, with different words and comportments, all within a concatenation of things within and without reality. 

There are a great many variations of the Soliloquy of Being. 

My soliloquy is quite short. A monologue of few lines, coupled with little drama, too much boredom, and a majority of short-lived, little enjoyed anecdotes that drew far too little laughs from the audience. 

There is the Soliloquy of Being, and then there is the reaction to the Soliloquy of Being.

I was born on March 22nd, 1993. 

That is the first sentence of my soliloquy. 

The audience does not find this amusing, which I suppose is expected, but from their faces I can tell they won't enjoy the rest. 

I didn't get to pick the audience. It was whoever happened to be in the same vicinity as me. The faces are blank, devoid of emotion; a group of assholes holding their teacups tightly in their right hands, prepared to lay judgement upon the words and actions I am about to entertain. 

I grew up in Chicago, in an apartment in a poor part of town. I lived with my mother, my father, and my older sister until she went to college and my parents got divorced and put a restraining order against each other. Switching custody became a lot harder when I had to walk a mile from one bus stop to another so they wouldn't have to see each other. Sometimes I'd take a random detour. That's the way to see all the best parts of the city. 

I moved to my grandparents farm when I was thirteen. It wasn't a very big farm, mostly just consisting of chickens and a handful of sheep. 

At this point their faces are disinterested, eyes downcast and evasive, stirring their tea in aimless circles. They aren't a very good audience. They laugh in all the wrong places, typically not at all. 

But still, it's my soliloquy. It's not their place to be a bad audience. Perhaps some variations of soliloquies are better than others, but there isn't much else I can do about mine. It is what it is. It's a Soliloquy of Being. I am just as unfortunate for telling it as they are for being the audience. 

The farm was boring, for the most part. I went to high school eventually, but not much happened. All of the sheep died, and my grandma decapitated the chickens, and it wasn't much of a farm anymore. I was, however, vegetarian. 

After that, there wasn't much left with my family, or of it, so I left. I went off to college. And that was that. 

I can't quite remember the anecdotes I recounted. One or two got a couple laughs, but most just left silence echoing in the aftermath of the words. 

There isn't much left to my soliloquy. The Soliloquy of Being pretty much leads up to were I stand now, staring out at a crowd of empty faces. 

And that's the Soliloquy of Being.