Monologue: Wrong

The most perfect place for an idealistic person is -- psychiatrist’s couch!

Wrong? Your own father – your own mother – your own brother – your own sister – your own nephew – your own niece – your own blood relatives – will stab in your back – lie to you – take you to a psychiatrist – label you schizophrenic – and you take antipsychotic pills all your life!

What’s your fault?

You’re telling the truth.

Five plus years: Relentless torture.

Five plus years: Colossal lies.

Five plus years: Pseudo, stage-managed life.

There’s nobody. I’ve got nobody. I’ve lost faith in all of ‘em.

God. Mother isn’t there anymore.

God. And, you. That’s all

You aren’t one of ‘em – right, Dummy?

You’re the most pious – and – you’re the most righteous person – like my mother – right, Dummy?

You’re my Lightening Bug, right?

Don’t stab me in the back, Dummy.

I trust you, Dummy. You give me hope and strength to soldier on.

If you stab me in the back – if you turn out to be one of ‘em -- I’ll lose faith in religion too.

Allah is watching. All of us are accountable. All of us answerable. There’s a Day of Retribution.

Right, Dummy?

If you’re reading this – and if you trust me – then read my last communication – please.