Tag Archives: monologue

Nesorna’s Monologue

I can not say I feel as if reborn —
and yet, there is a newness about me,
a cleanliness of spirit, that springs forth
from a new source, unknown and without name.

What words I choose can only dent the veil
of this deliverer that spawns such hope;
mere words cannot define this flash of light
that now illuminates my sorrowed pain.

Yes, pain: that wracking, scream of agony
which celebrates itself in birth and life.
I feel it not, but in its place I find
an agony of quite a deeper sort.

The pangs of transformation I now bear
bring me aware to planes of solid thought;
and in that heightened state they bid me stay
to question of my place and of my fate.

‘Tis true, that once I sought an early death,
as a small child might, innocent, seek change
in this too often monstrous, hateful world:
my simple wish to end all pain for good.

I offered prayer and hearkened to the Gods,
beseeching them to show themselves to me —
and wished that to their presence I could fly,
or that they soon would take me from this place.

But whimpering days of longing are no more,
and with its cloak of cold and glorious bliss,
this night has brought with it a wind of change
and I am more resolved to live than die.

This wind, more like a gale, has brought me life,
and set me on a pinnacle of hope —
here, tempest-swept, I stand, my spirit strong
and am renewed and ready for this day.

But where to start in this great future land,
this new discovered world of strength and truth?
The starting is the easy part, I know –
as for the finish, therein lies the test.

The glow of reason may not light this quest,
this enterprise that, virgin, waits untried;
and treachery is sure to find me, too,
yet I must follow out into this wind.

For be it so, or perhaps not to be,
it is not mine to yea, or nay, command;
It matters not if heaven is the goal,
nor if to hell’s doorway the breezes blow.

If strength or folly, whether good or ill,
this changeling spirit offers more to me,
more promise to my dark-encumbered soul
than any specter from my past has done.

Therefore, I must now gird myself anew,
and into time’s wide chasm throw my lot –
not backward, where my spirit found its root,
but into the un-named and unknown now.

I am resolved to hesitate no more,
but follow that which beckons from beyond;
and move into what learned men have called
the history and quest of all mankind.

But quiet now, the dawn approaches soon,
and it will prove me wise man, or buffoon.


From The Trial of Nesorna, Nesorna’s Monologue, Act I, Scene 4

Share This:

On Dialogue with Self

When does a dialogue with self cease being a monologue?

At what precise moment does the epiphany conceived of self-deliberation end its foolish premeditation on some inner change of being and address itself to the self in others, recognizing in external, living beings that same life force that propels it along the path of least resistance to its indeterminate conclusion?

When does that personal philosophy (or love of knowledge) come into being that requires the death of philology (knowledge of love, one could propose) and must of its own accord stand naked, alone and shivering on the mountain of endless esoteric academic masturbation and let loose its seed to propagate the action of love?

On what basis is the foundation for living laid?

On the cold and calculating pillars of what we think wisdom, but is in reality mere logic and more of the same false illusion separating the observer from the observed?

Or on the fetid swamp, crawling with unseen slime-in-the-making that marks its time of evolution simply absorbing the dry coastline and turning it to scores of miniature Atlantis fragments?

When does the monologue, the endless harangue against unseen foes and perceived slings and arrows that pierce the wondering mind with necessary doubt and wavering conviction, cease to be a speech released to the waiting air alone, and listen, beyond the echo of its own Doppler castings, to the response in the ears (any ears — one’s own, or someone else’s) that comes back, like a Messiah encased in the triangulating pulse of myth’s strange sonar, like a quiet ripple lost in the cascade of the sea at high tide?

At what precise moment does the angle of the jaw when open start to close the portal of the ears?

When does a dialogue with self cease being a monologue?

18 AUG 2004

Share This: