3 Guys Walk Into a Prison Cell.
a philosophical rambling, please - take this with a grain of salt i’m but a 20 year old idiot.
Freedom. What does it mean? Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness (Thank you America!). Humanity, taunted, - every era of history birthing some form of revolutionary cry upon the front lines screaming “FOR FREEDOM” !
I ask, what does it grant us, this call? What do we strive for when we ask our governments, "Please, sir, a little more freedom"? Freedom to speak? To live? To die? How can we ever free ourselves when death looms behind every corner, when every step towards freedom unknowingly grips us in more chains.
Nevertheless, no one can be less free than the man in the jail cell. Prison is the taking away of- the punishing of a child with a playtoy who has abused his privileges. In this timeout only now, the child can see his error and he laments, realising the true bliss of playing with that fire truck before he was reckless and now- alone… oh, if only he appreciated it when he had it!
Humans are gluttons at heart; we want what we can't have. Taking away makes us appreciate the past. Strive to regain your firetruck of life. Thus the desire for freedom is felt most regretfully.
In this abstract atmosphere let's enter into our scene, something more concrete (literally). A prison cell! Where is it? The year? Now, don’t you worry about this, it doesn’t exactly matter for our purposes here. 3 inmates are brought together under their shared encasement in a tiny room, low ceilings, bright white lights… cracks in the pavement revealing its years of servitude to the state. It is approaching nightfall, our inmates are feeling sluggish and sleepy as a force of habit. Yet their lack of accustomation to their bleak encasement rather than their respective bedrooms has not allowed one of them to relax. Their minds are all racing, their stomachs sick with dread. These inmates, poor fellows, have all been sentenced to death.
Sitting here, they’re far too consumed in their own self pity to acknowledge one another. Yet I can see them all. Let me introduce you to them.
There's Boris, he’s sitting, head in hands- trapped in a cyclical journey through all his losses. Boris cried on the way up here, the strong and logical artist type- unrecognisable. Boris would often be described amongst friends as the life of the party, beloved, maybe too beloved his ego had grown as large as his appetite for more. He sucked life dry, or tried to. He was a modern renaissance man- always reading, writing, eating,- pursuing something new. If you had asked him a week ago his plans he would probably have indulged you in a project., only fresh in his mind- but with such intricate detailing to suggest that it was his life’s work. That was his way, on to the next, he always was. How unfortunate that life was unimpressed, and could not protect him from mortality, and now, the poor Boris had become a victim of society, of law, and of the misfortune which has cast his freedom aside. Boris was plagued more by the mental rather than physical chains. His thoughts could not endeavour with the same freedom of a future. His notebooks in his upstate lavish apartment- no one was to read them. His misdirected scrabbles of future projects would erode with time. His ex-wife, his children- they did not know how to take his work and make it better- and besides, with a bitter resentment he angered at the idea they would profit off of his thoughts! Boris was 45, entering into his second prime- for him better than his first, because his grey hair allowed the academics he dines with to turn to him with respect rather than cast his thoughts to the side, claiming “ahhh but you’re too young”. He finally had his turn as the wise one. He had grown quite favourable with the opposite sex as well, growing into his looks as his mother had always told him he would. His hair was salt and pepper, eyes downturned with wrinkles freshly emerging on the outskirts. He liked to think himself a well dressed man, but his designer pants and button up now looked silly under the bright white lights of the prison cell. Yes, Boris was quite uncomfortable here without his freedom, in the mind he so prized beforehand - and all he could desire for was a drink.
Standing, pacing, muttering- this is Donald. Donald was a student, a young man with what his mother, and that one teacher, called a “gifted mind”. He did not fit anyone’s description of a criminal, looking younger than his years, and safe from the physical deformities which vices (drinking, smoking..) give the average man. He was much smarter on paper than the other, not an artist, but an academic. He was well read from a young age, raised in a family of low achievers he always felt he could look down upon others, that he was the prophet, the chosen one which his mother always thought of him as. He remembered her sobs as she spoke to him last, “my baby boy! My bright baby boy!” oh how the mighty have fallen! Despite this introduction, Donald had not one notable achievement, besides being the first in his family to enter into university which he realised soon into his academic career truly earned him nothing. He entered university bright eyed, bushy tailed- finally escaping his idiotic smalltown. He expected to be embraced by his fellow scholars, imagining he would be spending evenings in discussion, his professors pulling him aside to congratulate his mind for breaking out of the shallow confines of poverty. Academia was not that. He found himself lost amongst the silver spoon fed peers he was set next to. They all read what he had, they had thought his thoughts, but better. They never had to work a job, they laughed at his old shoes and raised their noses at the poor person who somehow snuck into their midst. What was this! He thought. He spent most nights alone, wanting to bridge the gap between his fellows, but too frustrated to focus on his studies. His grades were less than adequate and when his mother called to ask him how it was going he grew defensive “mama these people know nothing of the real world, academia is a sham!”. He had still not the mind then to consider how his mother took up a second job, sold half her closet to get him a position at this school. A genius turned mediocre, he grew bitter and resentful towards the establishment and he blamed. The only way he could make himself feel better was to denounce the world. He stopped attending classes, laughing at the high achievers and instead beginning to imagine how he could make them hate him. He was smarter! Yes! They were all mistaken- they would have been proven wrong. But- his greed was the most cunning kind, and Donald had followed it down a dark path. This all being said, his devilish demeanour was nowhere to be found in this prison cell. Stripped of all he had been working towards, he paced and paced but could not walk his mind out of the harrowing feeling of guilt.
Finally, closest to the window, legs crossed upon the pavement was Alan. His body language was more suited to a picnic blanket than the cold floor. His eyes were open as he gazed up to the sky, the little glimpse of it which the cell’s small window allowed, atleast. He was an average man. I suppose if you asked his coworkers, they'd call him a good man. His girlfriend, probably too “a wonderful man”. He was on a one way track to a life which either two would have scoffed at. A wife, soon. Kids on the horizon. A promotion at his 9-5 as he had been working especially hard for the past few months. Him and his fiance had begun sending each other house listings, planning how they’d make pancakes in their socks and nothing else in this little kitchen here. How that neighbourhood had a movie theatre in walking distance- perfect for nights out. Oh look! This one, in their budget, had an extra room, now, no pressure but- one day - they knew they could furnish it with a crib. He sat here wondering what she was doing, wondering if she would fill that room with another man’s child, whether in her new future she would look at the locket he gifted her for their 2 year anniversary with sadness as she grew older and her new man began to grey. 30 now, at least he would always be young in her mind. He did however have one problem plaguing his consciousness. Alan liked this time of day. He often took the setting sun as an insignia to sit upon his porch with an after dinner cup of black coffee and cigarette. This time of day he’d open up a good book, or a new yorker (his favourite magazine). He would smell the cut grass and feel lulled by the warm breeze. While his eyes scanned the text he would leave room in his consciousness to listen to the cicadas, to the children down the block playing, to the cars humming by. He could usually do this until the sun set when his fiance would turn on the light on the porch, and if he didn’t yet get the hint, come outside and tell him it was getting cold, to join her. Then he could feel her warm skin wrapping his, feel her hair between his work worn fingers and fall into her, waking prepared for the next day's toils. Yes this was what he missed most of his freedom, and he was now reminded it would never return.
It may have seemed the three would never have opened their mouths, to have escaped the confines of their own minds and engage with one another. I mean what would they talk of now? Donald had always looked down on others, hated the concept of conversation as he did not wish to entertain the fools he saw as below himself. Boris was too absorbed in his own poetry to even see the others, he would normally have loved to brag of his accolades and speak down to the two younger chaps of how they ought to make the most of their opportunities, but now, he was too depressed. Alan never really felt a need to talk so his behaviour was merely one of custom.
Yet one small intruder into their worlds of solitude brought them together in conversation. A mosquito.
How could it have wandered in here? That blood sucking parasite, crafty. He had no awareness he was running out of time, that this fresh and lively blood served up to him on a silver platter would soon be running dry. He hummed and hummed, flying around to pick his target. Alan noticed it first, its noise reminding him of the cicadas, yet much more annoying, as the cicadas had wanted nothing of him- merely to sing him a little song. Next was Donald, he heard it near his ears and swatted away at it a few times in annoyance. Finally though, the mosquito set its sights upon his target. Maybe he was attracted to his designer clothes, but he set his feet upon Boris’ exposed wrist and plunged his beak into the wrinkled skin.
Normally people don’t feel a mosquito’s bite, too wrapped up in conversation, or other wanderings, to take note of the minor pinch which announced their feasting. Yet in this silent, cold, prison cell… any touch felt magnified tenfold, and Boris felt it as if it were a slap to his wrist. He yelped, more from shock than pain, and he broke the silence - garnering the two others to set their eyes upon him.
“What was that!” he exclaimed, not really sure why, but he had felt the need to explain his outburst after catching the other’s gaze.
“A mosquito,” said Alan, plainly.
'He's been buzzing in here for a while- did you not notice?’ followed Donald, bitterly.
Boris unfurled his body, now ashamed to be positioning himself so weakly amongst his observers. “No”
“How on earth did he get in here?” he continued.
Alan looked at Boris, and pointed silently at the window, at the open grates.
“It's bright here. He probably set his sights on the light” remarked the intellectual Donald, he was not in fact interested in conversation, but he wanted to display his intellect in some form.
“Isn’t that moth?” asked Alan.
“What?”
“A moth to the flame, that’s the saying”
“That’s just a phrase, all bugs are attracted to light”
Perking up to a discussion, feeling prompted by his exclusion Boris chimed in-
“Are you sure of that?”
Donald was annoyed at the perceived question of his intellect. “What do you mean are you sure of it, it’s a fact, fly’s buzz near lights, ladybugs… it's just the law of nature”.
“What about spiders, though, they hide, if anything” Alan .
“Those are arachnids, not insects” Donald said, with the same energy as if exerting a scoff.
Boris grew interested in the discussion, and he admits, in taking the pompous Donald down a peg. “What About bees? They’re more attracted by the smells of plants are they not?”
While he felt slightly stumped, as Donald truly had no knowledge of the insect kingdom, he did not want to accept defeat so easily.
“They’re attracted to life, life and light are the same. I’m sure if you trapped a bee in a dark room, then turned on a light- they’d flock to it just as quickly”
“If they’re attracted to life, no wonder there's no bees in here, '' joked Boris.
He looked to his two comrades, as he now realised they were. He found an opportunity, for an escape into conversation, and also for a sense of shared anguish. Therefore he could not help but interject a gateway into the unspoken elephant.
Their impending deaths.
Alan laughed. “The mosquitos getting the last of us eh? Soon we’ll be wormfood”
Donald did not find it very funny.
Boris looked at Alan intrigued. His indifference made Boris a bit uneasy. Donald, he thinks he had completely down pat, a young passionate fellow, something of himself. He could imagine him a criminal, although he dared not ask what he had done. Alan however, he had not a trace of criminality about him. He didn’t come off as particularly warm though either, there was nothing about his demeanour that reflected anything he could take away. Not one indication he was sitting in a prison cell rather than in a lunchroom. He knew he smoked, he saw it in the way he seemed to twitch slightly. Boris had gone cold turkey a few years back in regards to his heart- and his wife’s nagging- but he knew a smoker when he saw one.
He then indulged deeper, breaking the established solitude of the cell.
“Say, do you mind If I ask your name’s?”
Donald grew annoyed again, he was quite quick to flock to whatever direction his first emotion would pull him. What's the damn point? Boris reminded him of the intellectuals at the university he resented for the way they looked down at him. Age does not - despite its perception- make a man wiser, he has no right in the world to speak so confidently.
“Alan,” Alan said, answering a question when it was presented.
Boris walked over, gentleman as he was, extending his hand, “I’m Boris”
They shook hands.
Then he turned back to Donald who he left in his anxious stupor, “and you?”
Donald kept his hands to himself, keeping a safe distance from his opponent and afraid of the connection for the loss of power he thought it would cost him.
“I really mean no harm,” Boris said. Understanding the fellows aversion.
Then, though, as a rare moment of clarity he gained from glancing at his prison cell, mentally checking the clock as it inched closer towards his end… he may as well, thought Donald, what did he have to lose.
“Donald” he eventually admitted, shaking his hand, much less firmly than Alan had done. It was a weak point in his life, his failure to interact with others in a cordial manner. That's what kept his mind so isolated, his inability to shake hands a symbol of his inability to take himself down a notch and engage with others, this without expecting it to be a competition.
After the exchange of pleasantries, the tension eased slightly. Boris almost felt completely back in his natural habitat, but he could not shake the dread in his stomach. Therefore, he took a break from any thoughts of their situation, evading questions of what they did. Instead, he opted to treat these boys like guests at his dinner table. Men at a bar, men in a prison cell- what’s the difference but a lack of beer.
He decided to ask of love.
“Either of you have a woman waiting for you outside?” he said. Then he checked himself, unable to withhold himself from directing an accusatory glance at Donald, “or men, sorry, whatever, I don’t judge”
The testosterone running through his veins prompted a defensive answer from Donald “I had a girl, have- had”
Boris laughed
“I believe it, I'm sure you have had many, I did too at your age.”
“Enough with your age you know, where do you get off old man?”
Boris thought to laugh, but he decided against it “It’s a statement of longing more than confrontation, I miss being young”
“I have a fiance” Alan now interjected
“Had a fiance” Donald commented “pardon me, but she’ll probably be moving on”
A comment for his own situation more than Alans, therefore unintentionally coming out with angst.
Alan took no offence, replying, “probably. but for now, she’s my fiance”
Boris, “better that way my friend, before my wife and I tied the knot she still looked at me like I was the most intelligent man on earth, now though, we’ve been separated a few years”
Donald “I never agreed with the concept of marriage”
Boris smiled “you really do remind me of myself”
“I don’t think much of it at all” Alan.
Donald, Rolling his eyes, “but you’re engaged”
Alan, “that was all her… but it wasn’t a bad idea, why not, I had thought”
Boris “marriage is nice in concept, no need to be so cynical about it. Promising yourself to another. My wife really looked beautiful on our wedding day, and that party, boy was it like no other. We both had a lot of friends you see, but decided to not splurge on the event, that did not matter to us at the time- although it was a bit cramped”
He looked at his peers, with that aged knowledge of conversation habituating him so that he checked his impulse to ramble.
Seeing as they had nothing to add however, he continued .
“Everyone congratulated me, too. They really thought I was the lucky one. She's beautiful, and they meant it. Some people really seemed jealous. I mean, I saw the state of their wives. I looked at her on our first dance and felt, for the first time, the most sure of our relationship. More than I ever had, even in proposing. I really felt that our commitments in front of that priest would mean something. I whispered in her ear that I loved her, that I would be better, and she smiled, really believing me. We had incredible speeches, we were friends with a whole load of romantics. I teared up before she did, and damn I drank so much wine.” he paused to smile at his own pleasant memories.
“We couldn’t even consummate it after, so tired and worn down from the excitement, not that it mattered- I mean she wore the white dress but… you know”
The two others still didn’t speak.
Now lost in his memories, he found himself stumbling upon regret. “But that was before the marriage, you see. I broke my promise to her, I hurt her, and her loving eyes were eventually lost to me, my goddamn greed. At least, you two, you will never have to experience that, let me tell you that”
Donald found his entryway then, “see! A sham. You seem to like the party more than you liked her”
Boris knew he was right.
Alan thought, then said “What about your girl then Donald?”
Donald's eyes softened at her mention, his harsh demeanour, weakened, “What do you mean”
“You never wanted to marry her?” he asked.
“Well I… I can’t say I ever wanted anyone else” he paused. “I mean she accepted me, after everything, she… ah but she is far too innocent”
The other’s silence fealt accusatory, and he felt the need to continue
“I mean she couldn’t see evil if it was as plain as satan coming down offering her a deal for her soul” pausing again in thought, he added “I swear she’d accept it too, not for glory, just to make him happy.”
While his comments came out bitter, Donald, in all his seriousness, smiled “I suppose I did love her”
For the first time admitting that to himself. Saying the words brought him a new regret.
He got lost in her memory, his sweet escape from his own mind found in her, the way her touch eased every bit of anxiety within himself. How her recognition filled the place of the masses in the last year or so. He realised he never needed anyone to love him so long she did. He was then overcome- I should have married her, I should have worked, built her a home, died in obscurity- but in her arms. He felt a desire to get on the back of the mosquito and fly out to her, fall at her knees and beg forgiveness for his sins.
But that was impossible, all he had now was what he had done, how he had acted. He grew depressed.
“Maybe I would have married her, maybe I would have been happy. Though, I don’t think I needed anyone to see it”
“There’s nothing more to life than a good woman” Boris now inputting his two cents. “If I had figured that out sooner, well, that would've been better for me”
He reflected
“I was always too greedy, you may be right. I was never happy with what I had, wanting more. I was a young successful man, always finding myself surrounded by young enamoured women with the promise of adoration in their eyes. I was good for a while, after the marriage, but their desirous words, their hands tracing my arm, looking up at me in that way they do. That of course mixed with whatever substance I was intaking- I was not a good man- not a good husband”
He looked at Donald now “seems I was mistaken, you seem to have figured it out much quicker than I, be proud of that”
Donald scoffed “whats that matter now”
Alan “Now that we’re wormfood”
They all seem to grow a little depressed, the opposite of what Boris had intended with the inquiry.
Boris tried to save the sad state of affairs before it was too late
“What about your Fiance, Alan?”
“What about her?” he asked, confused by such broad questions.
“What did you love about her, why marry her?”
Alan paused, unsure himself. “I don’t know” he thought harder though, not wanting to offend his companions with unintended reservation.
“I liked how she laughed, her full upper lip, she liked to go for strolls with me and we’d watch the sunset silently, sometimes holding hands”
“Why marry her though?” Donald imposed.
“She asked- unmanly of me as it is. We got an invite to someone’s wedding and after considering the gift we’d get them she turned and wondered, not accusingly, when it would be our turn. I had not thought of it before then, I guess, I was slow with such things. I said whenever she wanted and she said she’d love to be my wife” pause. “She started calling herself my fiance after then, I did too, we never really had to talk too much of those matters''
Boris laughed a bit, “seems like she was perfect for you then, my wife wanted the spectacle as much as I let me tell you… maybe I was interested in the reception but her eyes looked at that rock with more love than at me”
Donald “seems she was perfect for you too then”
Boris didn’t get offended. “Maybe you’re right”
Another moment of silence brought about the second discussion point. Boris again, the ringleader.
“So how did you two make your living?”
Boris, who had spent a life amongst artists, knew how to phrase this question without offending the “upcomings”, incase the answer was truly “Unemployed”, but phrased under the guise of “working on something”
Alan was quick to answer
“warehouse, manual labour mainly”
Boris, who expected it, replied “I always admired people like you”
“What do you mean by that?” he smiled, used to this reaction from the “intellectuals” and not even slightly offended. “It’s really mindless work”
Boris, charmed by his simplicity now more than off put by it, felt his comrade was smarter than himself.
“My problem seems to be that I was always looking for more, not just in women, in accolades, trophies for my wall- I was born with hunger.”
AREN’T WE ALL
“But I did not yet know what success got you, I thought if I had a room of people all willing to praise me, I would feel satisfied. I was really just lonely.”
Donald, now curious, hearing a bit of himself, had to ask “What did you do?”
Boris laughed, “what didn’t I do? I wanted to be a baseball player but after realising I had neither the skill nor physical ability to achieve it I set my sights on the artist's journey. I found a group of bohemians and nestled myself amongst artists, actors, the whole lot of em… tried my best to emulate each of them for a while… I was also born lucky you see, despite my denunciation of capitalist pigs my parents were well off- could sustain my experiments while I took horse tranquillisers and mused about the meaning of life”
Donald, who at first was interested, had grown fed up with his romantic ramblings- annoyed at the artist. Annoyed at his inability even now to realise his lucky position in life.
Boris saw this look of resentment and attempted to check himself.
“But that wasn’t your question, was it? To answer simply I wrote. At first it was quite bad I will admit. I knew the right people though, I had a chance to grow, a chance I was very lucky for. I started in the papers, short stories, and a few articles. I eventually got better, I wrote a good novel, riding that success into a few less good ones. I was a con artist though, never really writing something of my own, I really just repackaged the stories of the more interesting folks around me. I translated a few things, I was always fighting to be great you know.”
He stopped himself again.
“I think I was great in other people's eyes, that's the horrible thing. They never caught on, and the ones who did I discarded for the sake of my own ego. I had that room of praise and let me tell you it's not that great, not when your wife’s mad at you for coming home late for weeks on end. It’s not great when I’m not even sure it's me who they love… looking back now, even my best novels are bound to end on the dollar rack in a few years. Maybe my death will make the work seem better I guess, not that it matters, as I’ll be wormfood like our friend over here keeps saying”
Now looking at Alan who was watching with a simultaneously interested but unadorning gaze.
“Yes, I’m sure I would have been happier being simple” not noting the dig he was directing with that word.
Donald picked up on one point instead, wanting to be angry- he asked “so you were rich?”
Seemingly incapable of giving a straight answer, Boris, “Who’s to say what rich is!”
Donald reformulating his question, more as a statement so he couldn’t escape if“You had money”
“I did, yes” Boris admitted, finally.
Donald had guessed at much. “But you came from money, of course, they always come from money, the successful types, work hard they tell you but it's all a lie- there was never a chance for me in the end.”
Boris knew he was speaking to console more than degrade so he thought not to tell him that that was a poor excuse, that he had known poor and successful people. Yes he had made it by money, but, as much as that, he had worked hard. He knew he did. It wasn’t the work itself which he now regretted, but the fixation on fame. He could have been happy he now realised, he could have, had he just appreciated rather than longed.
“The wheel of fortune spins its wheel. It's better you appreciate what you have and start from there.”
Donald, annoyed, “I've read Boethius so don’t go quoting him like that. He too came from money y'know”
Alan, confused, wanted to speak about things he knew. So he changed the topic and asked “Donald, what did you do?”
Feeling the nervousness of the spotlight shifting, as if Alan was the world ready to cast judgement, Donald tried to evade
“Me?”
“yes, you” Alan, annoyed at these two ramblers, wanted a cigarette.
“well … I was in school, I mean a good one, and I did it all on my own- you see I came from nothing- I had no father, only a mother who, bless her soul, had nothing but a drinking problem and too many kids” after all this time, he was subtly blaming her.
“But that's not fair,” he admitted. “She helped me with tuition, she worked as hard as I and for nothing from me- I wasn’t the nicest to her. I didn’t like school anyways.”
“I never troubled with school myself” Boris added
“Me neither” Alan.
Donald felt accepted, so he continued “I hated my peers- they couldn’t understand the privileged position they stood on and looked down on me constantly. I’ll admit, I stopped going to classes, but you see, they told me nothing I didn’t already know in my private reading. I realised all those years working for a spot there meant nothing.”
He got a little sad
“I wanted to be great too I guess. I never had a chance though so forgive me when I tell people like you Boris, to fuck right off with your talk of fortune. You had fortune, of course it's easy for you to speak of life in that way when it always spun in your favour. Me? I never once had it easy”
Boris took the criticism lightly, he really did not have the perspective of a poor man, even his bouts of poverty were experimental, he knew his fathers wealth was never more than a call away and he had always bailed him out of his worst endeavours.
“Fair enough” he decided
But he was greedy! “Still though, with all that anger, who are you blaming? what does that get you now?”
“Well people like you for starters.”
“Ah but I never asked for money, It was nothing but fate, I didn’t control it, same way you couldn’t”
Donald continued to fight for this one consolation for his failings. “then the establishment, the system that made it like that”
Boris snorted “and you would have changed it? How so?”
Donald, passionately “out with it all!”
“Ah but you have much to learn then, always the young revolutionaries and their talk of change. If you went to your history lessons rather than counting yourself above them you would have had to come to the understanding that there's no right system, that humans do this again and again” he did however pity the young man's plight, he knew it well.
“If you have to blame someone, it ought to be God, but that leaves you a Godless and dirty old bastard like myself with not an ounce of hope to console my coming death” Finishing the sentence with a sad smile, attempting to show some form of sympathy.
Donald however did not need this insignia to feel consoled. His anger was mediated in this latter comment, and while he first thought of yelling, of explaining his ideal utopia and flexing his intellectual muscles… he now found himself the one directing pity.
“So you don’t believe in a God, then, despite being one of his favourites?” he asked.
Boris was taken a bit aback. Donald, this young academic, believed in God did he? Well what worked for some didn’t work for others he supposed. Truly he was always jealous of the religious types, of course they were much more at ease with living. Not plagued with a desire for earthly fame in hope of the afterlife of glory. That had simply never worked for Boris. He felt the consequences of such pessimism as he faced his upcoming death.
“That never worked for me,” he said. “Forgive me, I supposed it wouldn’t have for you either”
Donald was in fact religious, but he was not always like this. Actually, most of his life he was a denier. “Well you ought to have tried harder,” he decided. “In these last few months returning to God was my only way out of this suffering”
Donald had turned to God as many others before him had, as a last resort. After his guilt left him so disparaging, only then was he willing to delude his inner rationalist- just a little -to buy himself hope.
Boris felt an air of loneliness enter his being. He wished he had faith, he just never could buy it, romantic he was. He looked at Alan, who he supposed a catholic- but then got curious
“What about you?”
Alan who was enjoying the conversation as an non participatory observer awoke to his address
“Well, I never troubled myself with all that”
Confused as ever was Boris.
“What do you mean?” asked Donald
“I never really thought of it. If there’s a God or an afterlife or not, that's nothing I can control. Everyone dies, today, tomorrow- no escaping that fact. Why bother worrying about something that's bound to happen? ”
The other two felt jealous of Alan at that very moment. Alan felt it.
“Hey but you two are free to your beliefs, for me personally I just preferred to go on a walk sunday mornings” he smiled
And while he usually had not much to say, alan took it upon himself to add
“If there's an afterlife I would hope it's like this life right here- and that I could enjoy a cigarette with a cup of coffee, wherever it is”
Donald could absolutely not comprehend that idea, not even in the slightest
“I can’t understand that”
“Well you’re free to your opinions of course” Alan had no interest in debate as the other two.
“Are you not afraid, even in the slightest?”
“afraid? Not afraid”
“Ahhh you’re lying you must be”
“No I don’t think he is,” said Boris, who had fixed his eyes upon Alan “I think he has it better figured out than us”
Donald resented that, “speak for yourself, I have done no God, and I prefer God”
Alan “it's a matter of preference”
Boris had a new question for his newfound acquaintance
“What was your purpose then?”
Alan wanted to laugh, but afraid it would come off condescending. “You artistic folks and purpose… what does this purpose concept do for you?”
The other two felt accused. Boris was the first to come up with an answer.
“For me- my various purposes- they gave me a reason to wake up, they plucked me from the cruel hands of my addictive personality and forced me to focus on days ahead” he reflected
“I needed a purpose with no God, you see, sorry Donald, I’m not meaning that as an offence. I mean merely, I found myself lost without a goal- I needed something to work towards always. I think my happiest moments were the moments working up to and not yet achieving something I devoted my mind, body and soul towards, a book, a love interest. I’m afraid without that I would have gone insane, become a junky or potentially befallen to my suicidal urges”
Donald respected Boris, he realised. He could comprehend him, even though he was clearly quite lucky while he himself was unlucky. Jealousy, as Donald had learned, led him to the grossest avenues of his mind and the conversation about God had reminded him that this deadly sin was of no use. Yet he agreed, he agreed that without a purpose man was far too vulnerable. Vulnerable to what, well for Donald, it was always the worst. Not drugs, but his own ambitions, his greed and hatred. Vulnerable to despair and yes, as his acquaintance had pointed out, to suicide.
“Purpose? Why else live than to conquer- to reach something. I had a purpose for so long, “get to university” but - as Boris pointed out, getting there was not everything” he paused though, unable to completely discard the matter “but why would I waste my mind in endless wandering- I was happiest when my purpose was clear cut, straightforward. I could reign in all other feelings with the goal ahead- I hated lack of purpose, I could not go on just accepting things as they were - it was not right”
Alan then figured his answer,
“See you ask me why I wake up in the morning, you both talk of needing something to work for- and that’s hard for me to understand. Why wouldn’t I want to wake up in the morning? The morning brings the birds to my porch, singing, scuttling about. Yes work was hard, but sleep is nicer after it. I get to indulge daily in this borrowed time before death, and have a drink with a friend or read a new story. You all lived this life, you can’t tell me there is no happiness in the sunrise, or in your woman cooking you breakfast. Why would I choose to die quicker when I can live- whether I died today or tomorrow -it’s all the same. Anyways, my purpose was always to get through the day- enjoy it”
I believe you are the smartest one here” Boris too now wished he had a cigarette, for the first time in years since he had quit the vice.
Donald was not as easily pleased, and so he asked, “were you happy?”
Happy, a concept just as confusing as freedom… will humanity ever be freed from the neverending pursuit of happiness? Is this what we struggle for ?
Alan who never again spent too much time on concepts he did not particularly enjoy had to think. Happiness for him was never much more than a transitory state, fluctuating in between hunger, sleepiness, frustration…
“I guess I never thought of it”
“You’re not human” Donald said “How can you have possibly never thought of happiness?”
“He’s more human than us,” said Boris.
“At Least more properly human, I'm afraid, as he spent more time being one than floating in the abstract world considering his life and forgetting to live it. But you must admit it's a hard question anyways.”
Donald disagreed. “Is it most human to feel though? I have felt sadness, despair, suffering- but that’s what it takes to be a man- I don’t understand how one could live without such strong emotions, I don’t believe you’re human at all”
Pausing, looking at Alan, he added “no offence”
Boris though- “Your question was just too broad. Happy! How am I to know if my life was more happy than sad, how to filter the equation of it all.. I did feel happiness, I felt sadness- anger. Away with emotions though, for all I feel now is regret”
“I think I was happy, yes” said Alan now, somewhat uninterested in Boris, talking to Donald.
“Well then, do you feel regret?” Donald asked, curious if this man in front of him had truly lived so freely as to never face that inner contemplative burden of questioning their own life’s validity.
“No” replied Alan
“No I don’t believe I ever have, I always did what I thought best at the time, I was never smart enough to consider the day after tomorrow, and yesterday, well I can’t touch yesterday, I’m always thankful for yesterday, but regret it? Why would I regret things I have no control over?” he paused. “I Liked what you said before, “the wheel of fortune” or whatever, I have not read what you gentlemen speak of but, seems a simple a concept as anything”
“What did you do to get in here” Donald asked, with a little fear- but much more curiosity.
“I acted in the only way I could in an unfortunate moment” Alan simply stated.
“How can you think in such a way?” Donald was quite frustrated. Donald had felt regret, he felt it every waking moment of his existence, before the crime, before imprisonment he walked with regret filling his every breath. Daunted by the cruel second road and his choice to not follow it. Yet this emotionless man- with no emotions, how could he explain away a crime? If everything was so simple- so clear cut- why was he now facing death for a crime, how did it not affect him? He continued,
“We have free will. You may deny it, but I don’t. I know what I did to get in here, I have made peace with it but to not regret it? It's incomprehensible when I know my actions lead me down this path. You who speak of fortune take it like a drug, to make you feel better when you know it’s your actions which led you to where you are right now.” proudly finishing his statement, Donald sat down.
“Just like you with God then?” retorted Alan, proving he was human, capable of a debate after all.
“God is the best antidepressant on the market, I'm afraid he has a point” Boris commented, yet not neglecting the validity of Donald’s claim.
“I think, and tell me if I'm wrong, Alan is more free than we are, even here in this cell. He is free because he has somehow evaded what I thought was an impossible fate of humanity, regretting” he paused and reformulated his opinion before continuing. “I was never free- never free from the future- the tomorrow you speak of, I am much like you Donald. Even now! I have never realised how free I was, all my life- and yes attributing it to fortune is easier, you’re not wrong. Still though, what now? I have lived and now I will die, it’s a fact. My mind in all its dark corners won’t get me out of that, and I think if I had been able to live like Alan I would have been much happier”
Donald “you’re both wrong, I can’t understand it”
Alan “it's a matter of preference”
A silence fell amongst them-
not angry- not bitter or resentful, a peaceful silence. It could have gone on, but
“What would you do if you were freed?” remarked Donald though, awoken from his solitude it was hard for him to return back into his mind which he knew was so rotten and so scary. Besides, he was curious.
“I would do just as I had” said Alan “I would marry my fiance and buy a house with a spare bedroom” he smiled “I would sit outside and listen to the cicadas”
Boris next, “why vex yourself with such a thought!”
Yet…“but if I had to truly think, I would, well, I would write a book about this, I would go out for lunch with Alan and I would call up my wife, ex- wife sorry, and apologise” then “I would never care to seek fame ever again” he turned to his youngest comrade,
‘But you would write a book” challenged Donald
“Well, I can do both- I needn’t publish it, just work on it for my own joy” turning to face his youngest compadriate, he asked,
“What about you Donald?”
“I don’t know” he said at first, then a second later, “I would like to return to my classes, I think maybe, get married.. These institutions are the clearest places for me to figure out what to do, control my impulses. I would attempt to find the freedom you have advertised to me here Alan, but I would never give up the act of working for things, I don’t believe that life would be of much value to me”
The sun now had completely set and the cell was objectively colder. It was drearier with its only light source coming from the weakening overhead light. Yet it felt warmer to each inmate who now attempted to discover solace in their yesterdays giving up the possibility of a tomorrow. Is it really possible to live like this reader ? To live in appreciation?
“Hey the mosquito is still here”
Remarked boris, sadly almost.
“How long has he got I wonder”
Donald desired to squash the mosquito, not knowing why, he didn’t.
“I think it's about 7 days”
“That's flies,” said Boris.
“Whatever” said Donald “more than we got” a smile on his lips.
“We’re wormfood,” said alan.
And they all. Smiled.
And if you ask what they did, what happened, don’t. Whose life was the freest? Probably the mosquitos.