Somewhere in a not-so-dangerous region of the American Heartland lived a small Beanpole child who had a rapidly growing affinity for storytelling. The Beanpole child loved a good story. Writing them. Telling them. Hearing them. Seeing them. It was apparent to him from a very early age that he wanted nothing more than to be the greatest storyteller in the world.

As the child was aging into a Beanpole adult, he began to take a strong interest in musicians. The lifestyles many of these people lived seem incredible. The places they got to see, the people they got to meet, and not to mention all the fame and praise that came with it. All for the music. The Beanpole began to long for a life as exciting as that of a musician, and he knew he wasn’t going to achieve such a thing being a mere “storyteller”.

The kid grew up, grew out his hair, sported grunge flannels and ratty jeans, hated the other kids around him, grew a potty mouth, graduated high school, cut his hair, and went through many different phases, and with that, many different music...”projects”. With those projects came live shows, and with those live shows came the occasional applause, and with the occasional applause came the swelling of the smart ass’ ego. The man knew in his heart that he was, all in all, quite uninteresting. He didn’t have any wild life story to tell. He himself wasn’t a very unique person at the end of the day. He couldn’t sing or play the guitar worth a damn, and he was well aware of it. But he lived and died for that small patter of claps and cheers in the corner of the room, because, even if they were insincere, they at least convinced him that he was good at something, even for a little bit. And he was a man who constantly needed reassurance.

Nothing ever actually “went” anywhere. The Beanpole never knew where he wanted to actually go with everything, but he always knew he wasn’t there. He always needed more. But when he felt like he was closer to wherever he needed to be than he had ever been previously, nobody else wanted to do it anymore. A local rock band nobody had ever heard of had split up, but you might as well have turned the sky on it’s head as far as the Beanpole was concerned. He had poured his heart and soul into something for so long, only for it to deteriorate into nothing, because nobody else seemed to care if it even existed at all anymore.

He became a total shut-in from the rest of the world, and he slowly grew dejected, spiteful, angry, and had a constant bubbling hate under his bony exterior. For months he grew dejected, spiteful, angry, and full of hatred. The Beanpole hated himself, just like any dejected, hateful person might, but it had nothing on the hate he had building for the world around him.

The Beanpole couldn’t stand the constant anger rushing through him. The on-going frustration. All the bitterness. He didn’t even want to be associated with any of it anymore. So, he wasn’t going to be. The Beanpole decided there were now two sides to him. And all these terrible, negative emotions surely weren’t coming from a side of him he was actually going to show anyone. The Beanpole simply repressed everything he didn’t want to feel anymore to the far corner of his mind. “All these shitty thoughts aren’t mine,” he suggested, “They’re just coming from a sort of...inner bein’.”

Giving it a name probably wasn’t the best idea in the world. Steadily, the cruel quips and concerning comments of his Inner Bein’ scouted all through the reaches of the Beanpole’s mind like the old cartoon family of explorers with that crazy father leading the whole thing. The Beanpole and his Inner Bein’ began to resent each other, and the Beanpole tried his best to stay on the outskirts of himself, so to speak, as far away and separate from his Inner Bein’ as one could get. But his Inner Bein’ was constantly screaming at him to either “own up to his own shit” or “give him total control”...whatever that meant.

The Beanpole wanted the attention of the music back more than ever. Not only to have the feeling of reassurance about himself again, but to help combat all this bullshit his Inner Bein’ was trying to fill his head with. But if the Beanpole was going to do it all again, he wasn’t going to stop with the three guys in one corner of the bar and his parents in the other. In all sincerity, though, the Beanpole had no idea how to get anywhere else. He had a horrendous singing voice and the most mediocre, cookie-cutter guitar riffs under his belt. He felt stuck, like there was nothing he could do about any of it. So the Beanpole started rotting away with his Inner Bein’ shouting in his head every night. A new monologue of insults and verbal abuse regularly as the sun came up. Boy, his Inner Bein’ sure wasn’t wrong about anything he said about the Beanpole, though. In fact, one might go as far as to say that his Inner Bein’ never once lied to the Beanpole about anything.

Then, something echoed through the Beanpole’s head and rung to this very day.
“Provoke.”
Now, he definitely didn’t have what it took to provoke anyone, but something inside him did.

And so, he let it out. He painted himself up with a bottle of blood you might buy for yourself during Halloween to get himself in the right headspace, because, if you’re going to let your Inner Bein’ out, surely, he thought, things would get bloody. The Beanpole assumed that painting yourself in your inner “fluids” would help you to embrace your Inner Bein’.

It was a feeling unlike anything he had ever felt before. A rush like nothing else in his life. He was immediately overjoyed. There was no greater feeling of accomplishment than seeing the look on everyone’s faces after the Beanpole had essentially “switched places” with his Inner Bein’. Nothing seemed to give a greater feeling of joy than provocativeness. His Inner Bein’ was in love with life in general. All the horrible energy labeled on him by the Beanpole had been washed away in the air. He simply couldn’t understand why someone could be so negative living life, when all he ever knew was the Beanpole’s thoughts.

But as his Inner Bein’ was soaking up the sun, having a damn good time, clearly enjoying himself more than he or the Beanpole ever had, the Beanpole longed for control of himself yet again. With nothing but the consistent positive mindset of his Inner Bein’ to keep him company, he ached and pleaded for his life back. He would’ve done anything for all the happiness and fulfillment out of life that his Inner Bein’ seemed to immediately find, but he just couldn’t. He had to stick to what he knew; dejection, spitefulness, anger and hate. But he had trapped himself in such a prison that he could only project his emotions onto one thing; himself.

His Inner Bein’ was hearing him loud and clear too. And it didn’t seem like he had any intention of ever stopping. The constant self loathing annihilated the spirit.

As time went on, his Inner Bein’ seemed to lose the sparkle in his eye. Or was it the Beanpole’s eye? With negative thoughts gyrating back and forth through his head constantly, his Inner Bein’ became depressed, malevolent, pissed off and...hateful. With the constant berating of himself in his thoughts all the time, he almost missed having nothing but his thoughts. Life was just too complicated. He finally seemed to understand why the Beanpole was the way he was; because of his Inner Bein’. And he knew, whether the Beanpole knew it or not, that the Beanpole was now exactly who his Inner Bein’ was.

They had become the same difference.