Third set of monologues

Monologue #1

   When I read a book, I couldn't care less what it's about. The only thing that I'm interested in are the characters. Their personalities, the way they interact with one another, and especially the way that they think. 

   What makes people interesting isn't how they dress, or they talk, or the way they look. What makes people fascinating are the differences in their brain. How one person can see something and say that it's orange and another person say that it's red. 

   Who people hang around says a lot about them. I'm sure that you've heard this before but it's absolutely subconscious to that person, if you think about it. You can tell what that person likes and how they prefer to be treated. 

   People are just amazing. Don't ever forget that. 

Monologue #2

   Very few people write. That's because they're scared to. Writing forces you to look right at yourself and ask, "who are you?"  A lot of people are scared of the answer to that question. I know I was. 

   It probably doesn't make a lot of sense to you for me to already know who I am at such a young age. I've been writing for seven years. That's half of my existence. That's a lot of time to ask questions. 

   And if you're locked in your head long enough with these questions, eventually you start to take the time to figure out the answers. 

   I know who I am. But I haven't got the slightest clue how to tell you. 

Monologue #3

   The ink stains on the side of my hand tells you that I write. But what it doesn't tell you is that some nights I will stay up until the crack of dawn, writing and rewriting until I know that I've done the best that I can do. It doesn't tell you that at the end of the day, my fingers bleed and blister from the constant movement of my pen. 

   The blank expression on my face tells you that I'm not here. But what it doesn't tell you is that I'm stuck somewhere in the past, under the whip of my father or hiding in the closet with my little sister until he stops beating on the door. 

   The scars in my body tell you that I have a blade. But what they don't tell you is that it's been four years since I haven't cried myself to sleep. That the people around me don't pay enough attention to notice them or don't care enough to confront me about them.