THE MARTYR

                                   (Continued from page 1)

 

      Or—are the demons...in me? You see, one minute it's an apple-pie,

robins'-egg-blue-skied world. And the next, the very next, a shadow of

suspicion comes from out of nowhere! It only takes an instant! And then

nothing is to be trusted: not the trees in the city square, not the curves on the

backs of the chairs at the cafes—and especially, not the words or smiles of

anybody on any Committee!

    But if the demons are in me, how can I even trust my own thoughts? Am I

a scapegoat like Christ? Even taking this idea too seriously could lead me to

delusions of grandeur. Or am I just a poor, deranged fool—the victim of his

mad projections?



    Well, the drama played itself out back then. Ah, I was fiery that day! I'm

sure I touched a few nerves. My friends all told me I was eloquent.

      But are they really my friends, or just flatterers? Maybe my true friends do

not speak, for fear of injuring me with the truth. Or maybe my true friends are

that very Ericksen, Peppes, and the rest, who by villifying me, gave me the gift

of their honesty.

     I remember the way I pointed my finger; the way I emphasized the most

damning words; the way I raised my head high, turned abruptly, and walked

out!



     That was my last "performance", so to speak, under the bright lights, with

an audience. Now the lights are dim. Now, instead of fiery speeches to

crowds, I run these soliloquoys through my own head only.

      Now I sit, offstage—well, it feels pretty far off of life's stage. I sleep late,

have a second and a third cup of coffee, read the papers.

      My supporters have stopped calling. The news pages never mention me

any more.

      And the questions swim like sharks, round and round my head! Were

they the Boy Scouts they tried to look like? Was I wronged? Or was I just

covering them with my fantasy-plot, to find villains so I could be a persecuted

hero?

      How will I ever really know? How do we ever really know anything at

all, until we have penetrated beneath appearances and the mind?

      What is that tree whose branches are waving in the sky across the street?

And who—not just what is his name, I mean who really is that old man with

the cane, walking by it?

      Can I know the parked car he is passing now? Or even the phantoms that

people my own memories? Or this voice, that cries out so helplessly here in

my lonely room, like an eye, trying to see its way out of darkness?



© 1996 by Max Reif

 

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