The story is born of imagination and a steadfast commitment to the self – a quiet vow to remain resilient in the pursuit of what is right, without ever succumbing to the temptation of surrender.
In a world that demands obedience masked as civility, one man stands alone – unwilling to bend, unwilling to betray himself. The Last Free Man is a defiant soliloquy that wrestles with freedom, identity, and the quiet tyranny of conformity. This is not a plea for understanding, but a declaration of selfhood sharpened by intellect.
The individual has always had to struggle to keep from being overwhelmed by the tribe. – Friedrich Nietzsche
You ask me to surrender? To accept what has been handed down as though it were holy writ? My dear fellow, I refuse. Not out of some adolescent rebellion or romantic notion of heroism, but because acceptance – when it is demanded, not earned – is the most vulgar form of defeat.
Guilt? Oh, I’m terribly sorry to disappoint, but I am not afflicted with it. I’ve committed no crime unless thinking freely has become one. And if it has, then build your gallows high, for I have much thinking left to do.
I propose something scandalous: to begin again. Yes, again! Not because I’ve failed, but because I’ve seen through the farce and I’ve no interest in playing a part written by a committee of cowards. I shall go on as if nothing happened. I will smile with precision, laugh on cue, and behave with the poise of a trained diplomat – while inwardly dismantling the very stage upon which your little tragedy plays out.
You see, I’ve grown intolerably weary of your smallness – your provincial minds dressed in national flags, your exaltation of the average as though mediocrity were a moral virtue. I won’t be contained by it. I won’t be enlightened by your dim lanterns. My belief in a greater leap – in something sublime, extraordinary, inconvenient – is unshaken, and I intend to guard it as one might guard fire from the rain.
I offer my hand, but I do not bow. I converse, but I do not grovel. If you hinder me once, I shall proceed twice. I am prepared for collision, but I am not prepared for stillness.
Ah, but you think me dreamy? Sentimental? Perhaps I am. I dream of a world with trust that does not need a witness, of friends who are not creditors in disguise. And why should I not dream? You, with your charts and your clever cynicism, have done little with your realism but decorate the cage.
I refuse to become the caricature your expectations have sketched for me – neat, predictable, and politely subdued. I will not sever my emotions to squeeze into your rational ideal. I was born human – a beautifully inconvenient state of being, admittedly – but one I’ve grown rather attached to.
Look at them – they own maps and boundaries. I possess the idea of infinity. And I, poor fool that I am, will keep knocking. Not because I believe the door must open, but because I believe that knocking itself is a form of hope. And hope – when not commodified or preached – is a revolution.
Don’t mistake my patience for docility, nor my endurance for resignation. I am not your servant in spirit. Celebrate your victories if you must – no one will begrudge you your illusions. Surround yourself with flatterers who will polish your ego as though it were some ancient idol. But know that I will not join the ritual. I will not dance to that drum.
I refuse to be the deity of average men. I shall remain, to the bitter end if necessary, a servant – no, a disciple – of excellence.
So if this is a monologue, it is only because the world has yet to answer. I speak not to you, but through you, to the thing I refuse to betray: myself.
dooduddy 