Second set of monologues

Monologue #1

   I used to have my life all planned out, you know? But I've realized that my brain is a fragile spiderweb of codependent thoughts. One thread broke and now the whole thing hangs limp from the inside of my head. 

   There is one thing that I still know. I want to write. I want to wake up every morning with words on my fingertips and go to bed every night with ink stains on the side of my hand. 

   I want a room where the walls are made up of bookshelves and all of my favorite novels will have their own special place. 

   I want an apartment on the bad side of town where your shoes get dirty every time you step out the door and dogs wander the streets like jungle cats. 

   Here's what I don't know: who do I want to spend this dream with? I used to know. But that string has broken too. 

Monologue #2

   My room is made up of three things: paper, ink, and crystals. 

   These are the things that I simply cannot live without. They are who I am. My bones are made of paper. My tongue is laced with ink. My eyes are crafted from crystals. 

   The words that are said to me throughout the day fly at me and stick to my bones of paper. 

   My thoughts that I speak aloud aloud soar through the air as ink droplets and stain the skin of those around me. 

   The light shining through the trees is refracted through my eyes of crystal and the speckles of brightness dance among the leaves. 

Monologue #3

   Have you ever wanted something so much that you had actually convinced yourself that you could get it just by wanting it bad enough?

   That it felt like it was attainable by sheer force of will?

   I'd like to think that's actually possible. If it were, it'd give a lot of people a lot of hope. And everyone deserves hope. 

   That's how I get my hope. I just keep telling myself that if I want him bad enough, he'll want me back.