Tag: blogging

The Quixotic Poet

I never set out to be a poet. If I had my way, I’d be lounging on a beach somewhere, sipping margaritas, and maybe dabbling in real estate. But life, with its twisted sense of humour, had other plans for me. So here I am, trapped in a cramped apartment with a typewriter that’s older than I am, trying to wrangle words into something that resembles poetry.

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Paths

We all have a role, even if we try and pretend that we don’t. Society has shaped us this way; we can’t escape it. We believe we are free, yet we are not. Living in the illusion of freedom is what allows us to free ourselves from our life lot. The vast majority of us are nothing more than worker ants or drones. Following the same well-trodden paths but acting as if we can remove ourselves from those paths whenever we want to. We can never remove ourselves from those paths, just try and do it.

Words

We find it inconceivable to live without words and find it hard to believe that other lifeforms on this planet also use words. We were so anthropocentric we could not see that the writing was on the wall, and once it was on the wall, we carried on, as if the wall was going to be destroyed; why worry about stopping the damage now? Words used money as an obfuscation to the damage we were causing. We obliterated the planet, and the words allowed us to do so. If we had stopped and saved the earth, the power of the word would have been meaningless. Meaningless power is worth nothing.

Captured

It was all dark. There were voices when they spoke, he could hear them now, muffled, almost intelligible, but they were there. There was a musty smell around him. There was a cover over his head, and he could now sense movement. As he shifted position, the voices stopped, he felt paranoid again, well, at least he’d proven his paranoia right. He could feel them looking at him; what do you do in this situation?

Staying quiet seemed like the best choice, mainly as his mind was all over the place. He could feel his heart beating, and his breathing was feeling laboured, almost painful. Every breath was rasping his throat. Whatever was on his head was feeling weighty; he could feel it start to push him down into the seat, panic was beginning to kick in.

He was slowly pulled up and out of the car; should he try and escape? He didn’t feel he could. He was frozen inside. Fear had gripped him and had gripped him tight. They were talking again. What they were saying, he had no idea. It all sounded harsh to him. Did that mean he was in more trouble? He was pulled along with his feet dragging, and he couldn’t make them walk anymore. Effectively, Miller was paralysed. Was this a remnant of whatever he had been injected with? He was slowly starting to remember what had happened? Who was it that he met in the corridor? How did they know who he was? Hadn’t he filtered into obscurity?

…………………………………………………

He was bundled into a seat, his hands pulled to the sides of the chair, and zip-tied in place. The hood was pulled off Miller. The room was bright, and the light was stinging his eyes. He instinctively shut them again and slowly started to unscrew them. The room slowly began to hover into view. It was a standard hotel room: a few chairs and two beds, cheap furniture with illusions of being high class. The wallpaper was a weird beige colour, leaving you wondering if it was patterned or if it had just aged poorly.

There were two people here; I didn’t recognise either of them. They were talking to each other in a language that I didn’t understand. It still sounded harsh to me and as if both participants were arguing. Their body language suggested that this was not the case.

“I’d like a drink, please.”

They looked at me, an obvious distaste in their eyes. The guy on the left had a 1000 yard stare. The stare was enough to make Miller realise that he did not want to upset him. The guy on the right turned and walked to what I guess was the bathroom. The water flowed out the tap sounding as if he had turned on a waterfall. The noise was almost overpowering in this room. He returned and handed me a plastic cup filled with water. He held it at my mouth, and I gulped the water down, it was tepid, and although he hated the taste, he was in no position to complain or even to no longer want a drink. He did not want to displease these two men.

“Wwwwhhhyy am I here?”

“You know.”

“I don’t!”

They just looked at him blankly, which was somehow even worse than when they looked at him with distaste. Panic was rising in him, and his whole body felt rigged to an alarm system he could no longer control. He hadn’t felt such a sense of panic and urgency in years. Not since they were closing in, and the war was ending. He felt persecuted; he was only following his instructions; he had never really been in charge. Had he ever been in charge of any moment in his life? All he craved was monotony. He just wanted to be able to sit and do nothing. Clear his mind, listen to a clock tick, watch the world go by, and do nothing. Now, he was starting to feel this would never be allowed to happen ever again.

There was a knock on the door. One of the men said something, a muffled reply came back, and they opened the door. A thin, balding man entered, he was smaller than the two people already in the room, but somehow he was more intimidating. He looked at Miller and cracked a smile. Miller felt no reassurance in this smile; in fact, he felt almost nauseous looking at this man.

“Hello.”

Miller didn’t know how to respond, so he merely nodded.

“I’m glad to meet your acquaintance finally,” his voice had a slight lilt to it like he was trying to lull Miller to sleep, “I’ve spent the last few years trying to find you. I’ve also been looking for a Mr Walsh. Would you  know where he is?”

“I, I only ever met him once.”

“Recently?”

“No, just before the end.”

“The end? The end of what? The war?”

“Yes.” Miller was thinking now that he’d made a mistake. Perhaps, he should have feigned ignorance. Would they have let him go? It was academic now anyway, and he’d all but admitted they had the right guy. What would they do know? Execute him and just leave his body in a ditch somewhere. They could probably just leave his body here, and the police would still be none the wiser. “Are you going to kill me?”

“No, we are going to do something far worse than that. We’re going to take you back to face justice. To look at the crimes you helped commit and explain why. Every day you’re going to wake up and speak face to face with the victims of your actions.”

“Where are you taking me?” A calm was now washing over Miller. He always felt this day would come. He did, though, believe he was going to be killed and left to rot. Now, he might have a chance to explain himself, prove that he had no other choice. He had hope that he could be free and never need to look over his shoulder. He could explain.

“Back to the Holy land.” This answer somehow started to weaken Miller’s belief he would be able to free himself. He needed to go somewhere where he could have a real trial, and he was now starting to worry he’d just face a show trial. A trial where he was already guilty. Would he be able to turn the prosecution around and prove his innocence? He was only following orders; he had no other choice. He only wrote schedules. He never asked. He just wanted to do the best job he could. All he could muster was a half-hearted, “Okay.” He looked at the three strangers in the room and realised he’d never get out of the room alive if he tried to free himself. There was no chance that anyone was coming for him. Calmness was now washing over him. There was nothing he could do, and Miller just had to let what was coming come. For the first time in years, he didn’t have to look over his shoulder. It was too late now. They had already found him.