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Control

His name is William, a former soldier purposely withdrawn from civilization. He lives– very simply– on an isolated and forested mountain in the lower Himalayas. It is cold, but the elevation is low enough that there is very little snow. The cabin is small but comfortable, with a generator for electricity and a well for water. He fishes in the calm and shallow river nearby each morning, trying to forget his past, but nagged doggedly by the memories of who he once was. That past presses upon him vivid images, slowly and consistently etching in his mind memories he labors to forget. It has taken from him a dignity for himself he once took for granted. Dignity, however, was not all that was taken. Once married, his past seized that from him, too. It swallowed his whole life, in fact, exacting a toll on him that shone on his very face: though only thirty-five years old, his appearance mirrored that of a man much older.

All this was ultimately a result of his need for control. Indeed, control was something he knew all too well: he was taught it as a young man both by his father and by his government, but he pained now at the irony of that control that seemed to sit before him, mocking. He had built mental walls around himself so high that neither the dearest friend nor the most insightful counselor could surmount. By choosing control, he chose imprisonment; and by choosing imprisonment, he had lost control. What he once treasured as virtue, now haunted him as vice. He was, in fact, alone.
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