“You have not done enough; you have never done enough, as long as there is still something to which you can contribute.” – Dag Hammarskjöld
The stone chamber did not appear real. Colors danced across the walls and human shapes and silhouettes could be made out in the opposite cell as the day morphed into the night. The brass bed was not much of a luxurious comfort to him and resulted to a constant switch of laying position. Sitting in an abandoned prison building while everyone else is outside does not leave many things for one to do or accomplish. For the past three months the man who lay on the brass bed has done exactly that. Nothing. He has done nothing. He kept to his bed, and sat on the stone floor, dissected a rat, broke and repaired the bed and attempted to escape. Guilt, fear and frustration have washed him through and through. Like acid or poison, it left him naked and burned. It seeped through his clothes and through his skin, into his organs and attacked his mind. Leaving nothing except for hopeless thoughts to finish of his corpse of a conscious.
These thoughts were about his life. His losses, his achievements, his successes, his failures. The thoughts all followed the same pattern. All piled massively into his head one after another, heaving down on his infamous head like cement. He thought about the people who used to be precious in his life. They no longer invoked such strong emotion in him. They did not seem important to him. Instead, they felt distant, like strangers. Even similar the prison guards, they were outsiders to him, people he would attempt to help in a difficult situation, but in a way that would never affect his life.
It began to quietenin the exterior of the old abandoned building as the sun creeped away. Laughter and hoarse macho voices could be heard yelling outside, a few gunshots echoed, a scream or two and a giggle here and there. As night time settled, the animals crept into their tents and abolished all human behavior they hardly could even hold on to during day time. They disgusted him, those men. All humans did. Because of them, because of their values, their greed, their desires, everything he and his people worked for could never come about. None of it would ever exist. The children of the next generation would be doomed. They would never see blue skies; never would they hear young birds sing their first and last songs; never would they be able to swim or understand marine animals and why the water is blue and black during the day and during the night. Animals would never come out, the grass will never be green again, and smiles would be seldom, everything would be worse.
Had I not done enough?
Could I have done more?
Getting up from the brass bed, he walked over to the other corner of the stone prison room. From here, he watched dust dance through moonlight that shone through the typical metal barred windows. That was the only light he could see. Everything else was dark, the prison guards left him, assured that he would not attempt to break out and no one would ever come for him. He was a lost hero.
He pulled his knees closer to his face and dug his nails into his palms. Fear began to wash over him. No one would come for me. It’s the truth. He did what was to be done; he had carried out his due share towards peace, towards mankind. And now it led him here. To this cold, dark, depressing prison containment, alone and isolated from all human beings because he refused to be like them. It took years and years to persuade people to believe in his cause. After the first hundred followers, people began to come on their own free will. The cause kept growing, the numbers kept increasing; hundreds, thousands, ten thousand… hundred thousand… millions…
And for what?
The same thought popped into his mind again, had he done all that he could? The answer was obvious, of course not. There was still so much to do, so much to learn, so much to create, so much to ban, so much to write about! All these things he would never be able to continue all because of a small obstacle in his agenda tomorrow, this execution of himself he had to attend. The thought had scared him, but he has long overcome it. He did have three months, three months in this disgusting old room.
Who embodies peace? Not his race for sure. He had come to the conclusion that this would never be possible as long as there was more than one living human existing on a planet, asteroid, in space, whatever suits your tastes. Whenever more than one opinion exists, a difference of two, peace is a tragic hero’s last wish. The definition of peace is calamity, tranquility, happiness, rest assurance, contentedness. The physical and verbal definitions of the word merge into one thing that no human has ever achieved through history, other than their own passing away. The death of a human is the calmest, composed moment in their life.
In his own miniscule approach, the man realized that in a sick way, he will achieve his cause finally tomorrow during his execution. He will create peace. He will be peace. As his lifeless body will fall to the ground, he will eternally sleep in such a tranquil way the guards will shed a tear. They will hurt, they will feel the agony they hoped would never come. The man will move on with such a smile on his face that all other living men will envy him. He would be given the second gift; the gift of eternal slumber. After all complete deep sleep is the only time when a human can relax with both his body and mind.
A smile adorned his bony grey face. After three months, a thought had made the man happy. And finally, after three months of restless, terrified slumber where paranoia crept through his dreams, was he finally able to find peace. As only through chaos can one attain it.