The Desperate Man: A Monologue

Vic Vallee

I stare eternally out at the world, brown eyes wild and pleading. Many stop to look at me, but none notice the true anguish in my gaze. “The Desperate Man,” they call me, but nobody ever considers what it is I am desperate for. The truth is, I am desperate for release from this way of existence. Trapped in this two-dimensional world, I am doomed to remain static and immobile. Outside the window of perception, I cease to exist at all. I have no brain, no heart, and yet somehow my thoughts and emotions are constantly running rampant, unable to ever leave my mind or be conveyed through more than a single, unwavering expression. My creator fixed me into a permanent state of distress, which is how I have stayed throughout my existence thus far, and how I will remain for the rest of it.

I know there are others like me, countless people born into flat prisons like my own. But most seem content in their stagnant frames of living. Many are surrounded by imitations of mountains, oceans, fields, and forests. Even with no scenery at all, most are at least graced with the gift of peaceful expressions. Still trapped, yes, although fixed into a position of eternal serenity. 

As for myself, I am not so lucky. I have spent my time in a constant state of panic, eyes wide and hands tearing at my own hair. A painful existence that will not soon end. I am kept as a priceless treasure, concealed and protected from the outside world. I wish nobody had assigned value to my image. I wish they saw me as a simple scrap of material, fit to serve as kindling for their cooking fires. I dream of being enveloped in flames. One last moment of burning hot sensation before I am finally released. Only in ceasing to exist entirely could I relinquish the title of “The Desperate Man.” Only then could I know peace.