He was probably never getting out so long as the Left considered him to be a risk, but that was okay. As much as they beat him, as much as they wanted to flip the lights on and off, toss his food at him, hose him down and leave him shuddering as they turned the temperature down, he was still able to chuckle. At times it felt like a self-deprecating chuckle, at others it sounded more like an ungainly croak since his lips were mashed and split a couple of times, his eyes were blackened and nearly shut, and he was certain that at least one or two bones had been broken since he’d been incarcerated.
But the ideas were still there.
Somehow, he had an inkling that was why he was being continually beaten and tortured, since otherwise it felt as though they would have been trying to forget about him. Somewhere out there his friends and family were spreading his ideas as he’d wanted them to, while inside he was doing what he could to protect them by saying nothing, except to toss the occasional good-natured barb at the guards when they decided to speak to him before or after the beatings.
He imagined green fields, rolling hills, long, gray, wind-swept beaches, and mountainous regions that lay just beyond. His mind went to the vast, forested regions far beyond his cell, or just above or surrounding it for all he knew. His thoughts went out to the fantasy lands that he’d created, soaring above the clouds, over the alien and familiar landscapes, and to places where humanity either didn’t exist or had found a way to live not in harmony with one another, but a type of contentment that allowed for disagreement and for differing lines of thought. There was hatred and envy there, but there was also tolerance, and understanding, and the comprehensive wisdom of many that realized when something truly threatened their peace of mind, rather than sought to simply offer a different point of view.
They couldn’t take that, which was what too many within the Left didn’t appear to realize. They couldn’t govern though, or ideas, or imagination, because it escaped and transcended every possibly boundary laid in front of it. To some it might have appeared to be a limited and fanciful thing that didn’t fill bellies or solve problems, but it gave to people something that was more precious than many things in this world. It gave hope. And while even hope didn’t directly cater to one’s needs, it was a spark from which a fire could one day grow, so long as it was nurtured and kept safe.
One couldn’t kill an idea, because ideas represented hope. The only way to eradicate either was to lose them on purpose, and he mean to keep hold of both until the end. Whenever that might come. As the sound of his door being unlocked came again he couldn’t help but grin, thinking that hope would be his best friend and his undoing.
“Let the game continue,” he said to himself.