Chapter 6 in R.M. Dolin's novel, "What Is to Be Done"
Read companion poem, read original poem
Why does night encase emptiness as if we are one? Why does light beyond the edge of darkness tease at attainability? Who are these men and how did we get here? A heroic cowboy, a principled man ironically misplaced, a slave on the run, what do we have in common outside a beguiled belief we matter.
I can grow corn in the rain forest
or stand in opposition to oppressors,
but riddle me this,
at the close of my chapter
does anything change?
Once you agree the answer's no
we can assess the futility of struggle.
I am not like you.
I feel what you watch.
I am pain you only witness.
I'm talking about real pain, of which you know nothing.
I breathe only because
I forget not to.
I hear only because
I can't outrun voices suffocating my soul.
I feel only because
I no longer remove myself from fear.
I have no desire.
No purpose.
No consequence.
I exist only because you let me,
only because it amuses you.
No one touches me with kindness.
No one warms me at night.
I long ago lost contact with hopefulness.
Almost human,
that's me in better days,
rare moments allowing the past
to permeate my perimeter
letting me almost believe
there were times happiness was obtainable.
You talk while you take.
You exercise issues as if
I was your personal pin cushion.
I cannot breathe.
I do not feel.
You wager over my haunted soul,
not with remorse for
what it has become,
only for what it can provide.
Good-bye to me I say
with empty escape,
devoid of everything including
the moment I finally decide.
You bring me heartache.
You bring me sorrow.
But in the end,
I decide what is to be done.
I’m embraced by the numbness of nothing
but lack the fortitude to move on.
I don't know you
other than to know you don't care.
Not about me.
Never mind.
Why are you here?
Why do you stand between me and hell
pretending to care?
You wager as if I can be owned
but I would rather die.
Never mind.
Nothing can be done.
You pretend to help,
but what will you take in return?
I see in you regret.
Tell me about when you were me.
Talk to me tomorrow
about the possibilities of tomorrow
and we'll see if it exists.
How old is your soul,
not in years, in torment?
I don't trust you even though
in you I sense shattered pieces of me.
I know nothing about you,
except that if I breathe
you will rob me of my breath
and leave me gasping for
the nothing this world provides.
Death is an illusion,
a poem of peaceful pretend.
A metaphor in multi-shades of darkness.
Don't be nice.
Don't make me matter.
In the end,
there is only the end,
and I will decide about that.
Background poem for the R.M. Dolin novel, “What Is to Be Done.” Sympatico attempts to flee her evil captors but is caught. Two strangers, Jake and Dario each intervene against the odds to win her freedom: Dario with his fists and Jake with his intellect and willingness to take risks. She doesn’t trust their intentions while at the same time, senses a goodness about them, a shared sympatico, something that says they too endure unimaginable torments.
