The Auditorium of Monstrosities 

A Short Story/ Narrative Essay

By: Charles Aldux

On: 6/7/2022

  I have gathered my pieces. My dearest and most prized possessions that I have orchestrated from my defeated psyche are here ready to represent how I have felt. Maybe I have already shared some of these with some of you. But I cannot face you. I cannot play and recite them.

  How can I face the music when the crowd is filled with abnormalities and monstrosities? I see myself amongst the crowd. I see the vocal stammers that surround my mind. I see the person I once loved who had lied about their emotions and who had wasted my time. I see my wasted life out there plastered right before me. 

  I am the monster but does the crowd see it? Do they notice what I see amongst the seaters of this auditorium? Of course they can't but these monsters growl at a rate that seems like a deafening cacophony. With their calvous cornigerous heads and crasulent bodies they creant and imbibe thoughts that would make me seem like a crapehanger, a pessimist. 

  These articles of art I have to display I seem to fear that when heard are like that of a crepitus, a mere fart. And these emotions are crebrous, frequent. Frequent yet the frequency seems to be crescive, increasing. And I am stuck in fear in this state that is ever so collectic, adhesive and sticky.

  Why do I believe this cockamamie cradenda that has no sense of comity, no courteous nature? The same monstrous credenda, the thing to believe, that drowns me, a victim, inside its cloaca? And why can't I escape this eldritch cloaca, this evil sewer, when there seems to be no clicket, no latch, to release me? I try to clepe, to call out to the one thought that saves me from what I viewed as the false pretense that others looking on the outside-in, seem to advise. I know it damns me yet I hold onto it like a widower keeps their deceased lover's wedding ring.

  I am the crepehanger, the pessimist, who drowns myself in the sinking sand of this staged auditorium. Cringing at the thought that once I release a syllable that the eldritch beings will begin to crepitate, to snap, my sensitive psyche. I know that they're complotting, scheming, for the moment when I will beg for them to complect me, to embrace me. Embrace me exactly in the way I desire for some dame to do to me.

  It seems to be a mere conatus, a natural impulse, that causes this madness to reoccur. As it seems that all I am attempting is for a conation, an effort towards what I desire most and what I want. To rid my soul of that which does haunt and taunt. Which is a greater number of more than a chiliad, a thousand. Searching for my calodemons is much harder than arriving towards these inner demons. 

  And I remain here for the longest time than I could reminisce about. Though the lights nearly give me caecity, blindness, I can't help but notice the caliginous void, the dark emptiness, that I am caught up in. I seem to stammer, giving my speech and vocabulary a taste of cacology. It is all cack, it is all rubbish. Yet the cack fills me with a cacoethes, an insatiable habit, which in-turn causes my depressed thoughts to make me seem like a cacogen, an antisocial. 

  I will temporarily try to put on the mask of positivity but it appears to be cacozealous, a poor imitation. I write my thoughts like these down in corrective repetition for it is in cacography, poorly spelled and at times etched in poor handwriting. And when it is finished being creanted my glands are filled with cacidrosis, smelly sweat. To say I am a sane poet is to calumniate, to misunderstand, what I am. And I am a callowed man, inexperienced, and an elegist afraid of the demons afore my stage. It is only a matter of time, when before the morgen, the morning, my cacaesthesia, this morbid sensation, will become a camisade, an attack at night. Yet there seems to be nothing to flaunt these nightmares, there is nothing purely antephialtic. Even if I relayed what must be portrayed, I will still remain gravely depraved. These monsters that surround and outnumber the actual audience seem to be something that I daren't betray, for if I do I may fear the fray. And so I, The Mad Elegist, have chosen to psychologically decay.