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Confessions I: The Projection monologue

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posted on Dec, 16 2003 @ 03:00 AM
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Projection: A Monologue

People say Iím never quite happy. Itís true, I suppose. Iím always wanting more. More than I have, more than I could appreciate, more than I could use. That miraculous state of perfection always seems to elude my grasp, for some reason. I canít seem to accept my mortal limitations, focussing on my own weaknesses about everything else. Too much is never enough.

Everything in my life boils down to having an edge, being better than the next guy. Let me tell you about one of my greatest fantasies- myself. No, not the me thatís sitting here at crackhead hours typing away, shrivelled up into a ball. I mean the me I see when I close my eyes, every time I turn aside and after every hurtful comment. I suppose I call him Fortunar, a typical geek name. Kinda romantic in a, way I guess. I always had a flair for the dramatic, even if I couldnít remember lines for # and my actions were Ďrepetitive and blandí onstage. Just another in a long list of failures. Let me tell you about Fortunar.

Olí Fort, he donít take # from nobody. No matter what incarnation heís in - and heís always changing, depending on what Iím reading\ playing\watching - heís always got my face. Heís usually armed to the teeth, too, but thatís beside the point. He always gets the girl(s), and comes out on top in the end. For some reason, heís always skinny as hell. He looks that way, but heís tough as nails for some reason. Heís got the rippling muscles and moves like water. Heís death in a can to anyone whoíll # with him, and a rather sad and lonely sort for some reason. Heís a projection of perfection, who and what I want to be, no matter how abstracted from reality it is.

Hello, my name is Alex and Iíll be your maitre dí tonight at the Exile Cafť. Letís see- todayís projection du jour is a standard Shadowrun offshoot. Black combat boots, urban camo pants, long black duster. Short, spiked hair, grey eyes, clean shaven, glasses. Skinny with well defined muscles. No shirt, flat stomach. Hmmm, he seems to have a sort of kobun look to him, because heís carrying a ninja-to and katana, one on top of the other at his right side and a pair of sais on the left. Two shoulder holsters, one with a large combat knife with brass knuckles imbedded in the handle, and a large semiautomatic pistol in the other. This one doesnít seem too fond fo the ranged combat. Ah, never mind, he has assorted throwing...objects at his disposal....

And thus the madness continues in an effort to escape what I really am. Where Fortunar stands firm, I bow. Where he upholds his own honor, I lie, cheat and steal. Where he succeeds, I fail. Every time I walk down a hall, and I encounter somebody - doesnít matter who, really, just another male I perceive to be bigger and stronger than me- I imagine what their reaction would be if olí Fort came walking down the hall instead of the guy with the hunched back and ugly beard. Iíd bet they cringe like I do. Instead, I look at the floor as I pass them, acknowledging my subordination. I hate it. I loathe it, being the weak link. Being looked down on. I donít suppose itís too much to ask for, right? Obviously it is, because Iím writing this.

DE



posted on Dec, 24 2003 @ 04:03 PM
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deep and dark, as always, DE.
keep it up m8



posted on Dec, 24 2003 @ 04:33 PM
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This is fiction! Oh, damn. I wrote real. Sorry.

[Edited on 24-12-2003 by Colonel]



posted on Dec, 25 2003 @ 10:53 AM
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Colonel, I'm confused. Thanks FLC, tho. criticism and input keep me writing.

DE



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