I sing to an empty audience, comprised of inanimate objects that stare into my empty soul. The melody is enthralling, and the words spoken enticing, and yet I hear nothing but the eternal applause — all in mind, of course. There is no one to be seen or heard, and I cannot remember the least time I’ve seen another human being even give me the time of day. A few seconds of his life — that is all that I ask of him, and yet he feels so entitled to it, that he cannot even bear to spare enough of it, for someone like me. I do all this work — I compose my own songs, and write my own rhymes — I correct my wrongs, and spend so much time perfecting my craft — so why is it that no one bothers to listen to me?

Is it because I am not good as I thought I had been? Then I’ll have to practice harder! Is my performance just not convincing them? Then I shall work on the greatest trick of all! But alas — I have already mastered it, for I sing out to the world, yet it does not believe that I exist. The Devil is me, and I am him, for as long as I remain on his stage, I will play the role of the mischievous villain until I receive my desire of fame — of fortune — of everything that I had been working towards since the day of my birth into this new world — one in which I am nothing more than an ant on the sidewalk of giants and idols.

So why is that I continue to sing? Is it out of my desire to save people from the sadness that consumes them, or of my own vanity to be accepted by the ones I hold in high regard? Perhaps it is the only thing I am meant to do, in this world of mine, which has been silenced and driven into the ground. And even when I am there, I shall keep calling out in the hopes that someone — anyone — can hear me and reach out.

Photo by Jonas Jacobsson on Unsplash