THE SURRENDER

PART I

The last tendril of civilization snapped when I sold my phone and laptop. It felt like amputating a phantom limb, the tingling ghost of social media notifications and news alerts still vibrating and ringing in my ears. I had sold everything. I needed the money for supplies, for the tools to carve out a sliver of existence far removed from the screaming circus the world had become. I was officially off the grid. My name is Rayan Dabajeh, once a proud weaver of words, now a self-exiled hermit, finding solace in an endless stretch of these pines. Here, among the echoes and sighs of wild animals, I wander these woods a soul haunted by the stupidity of a world that refused to listen to the gentle hum of the heart. Unlike the other wild animals I lived amongst, these animals live by common sense and obey the laws decreed upon them. Let them have their endless bill paying, their overcrowded streets, their screaming matches on screens, their random shootings, their carefully constructed narratives designed to tear each other down. The cars have now outnumbered the ants on the polluted streets, and idiots who have forgotten how to drive safely. It became nothing more than a circus show, and I wanted no part of it. The truth is, I couldn’t take it anymore. The sheer, unadulterated stupidity. The endless, cyclical arguments fueled by misinformation and ego. The way people seemed to actively seek out reasons to hate each other, to build walls instead of bridges. It was a pandemic of idiocy, and I was desperate for a vaccine.

I sit here, a broken man in a broken world, and all I can think about are the ‘what ifs.’ What if we had truly used the power of the mind and considered each thought before arriving at every decision? What if we had chosen love over the madness of division? I remember the rhetoric. The fiery speeches, the venomous slogans, the relentless drumming of propaganda that painted others as the enemy. We devoured it, lapped it up like starved dogs. We allowed fear to dictate our actions, to poison our minds. We built walls instead of bridges. I tried to tell people with my words, with the poems I created, that we were all fundamentally the same. That we were all fragile, all capable of holding something precious. That even broken clay could be mended, could still hold water. But no one listened. The noise was too loud. The hate was too intoxicating. That’s when the questions began to claw at me, relentless and unforgiving. And the conclusion, stark and unavoidable, was that we hadn’t even tried.

I tried to heal the world I shared with them with words of compassion, but human stupidity had metastasized into a full-blown epidemic. I used to believe in the power of words, in the ability of poetry to shift perspectives, to foster empathy. I’d spent years crafting verses, pouring my soul onto the page, hoping to ignite a spark of understanding in the collective consciousness. But the vision always faded, replaced by the harsh reality of ignorance. There lies only silence, a resonance of what might have flourished, if only the threads of life had been spun more gently. The echo of progress is stifled by pride. The opportunity for compassion is buried beneath the weight of self-righteousness. The fire I tried to kindle was quickly doused by a deluge of envy and greed. So I ran. Not bravely, not heroically, but with the desperate, cowardly sprint of a man fleeing a burning building. I packed a bag, said goodbye to the crumbling edifice of civilized society, and retreated into the embrace of the forest. Here, the only divisions were between predator and prey, with survival the only ideology.

PART II

My cabin was simple, a testament to necessity over luxury. The air here teemed with the scent of pine and damp earth, not the constant assault of urban exhaust and manufactured fear I’d grown accustomed to. No WIFI. No cell service. Just the rustling leaves, the burbling creek, and the gnawing silence. I spent my days tending to my small garden, splitting wood, and simply existing. The poetry refused to flow, dammed up by years of disappointment and disillusionment. It was as if the muse had abandoned me, disgusted with the world I had attempted to beautify. Sometimes I’d find myself staring into the embers of the fire, haunted by what could have been. These questions lingered, mere echoes in the depths of my heart. I imagined a world where reason prevailed, where compassion guided action, where differences were celebrated instead of weaponized. I saw a society built on understanding, on empathy, on the foundational principle of interconnectedness.

I remember the day I finally cracked. I was sitting in a coffee shop when I overheard two men arguing about something political. Some fabricated grievance, who’s better fit for the job? But what struck me wasn’t the content of their argument, but the ferocity, the utter lack of willingness to even consider the other’s perspective. They were screaming past each other, locked in a death grip of stubbornness, seemingly oblivious to the fact that they were both breathing the same air, sharing the same planet, facing the same existential threats. Does it matter whose in charge? Does anything ever change for the benefit of peace and a better world? Never! Every fall, a flower dies and returns in spring, looking the same, acting the same, smelling the same, same thorns attached to its body, and the only thing that changes are some new faces tending to it, watering it, and admiring it, even worshipping it at times. The world continues to spin and evolve around us, it doesn’t need a leader to come and start rearranging the forests and the land, and poison the air that it graciously provides for us daily. A leader’s sole purpose is to govern with a firm fist, and has always done more damage than good. Leaders and Dictators rise and fall, and the world continues marching on, leaving it a bit more unmanageable and unlivable for the innocent ones.

And I feel a surge of something akin to disgust. A natural rejection of this madness, this self-inflicted wound. But then, just as quickly, the disgust morphs into a profound sadness. Because these aren’t monsters. They’re just people, lost and afraid, desperately seeking connection and meaning in a world that seems increasingly devoid of both. They’re victims of their minds, trapped in echo chambers of negativity and fear.

I rose one morning, stiff and weary, and added another log to the fire. The warmth was a small comfort, a flickering reminder of the hope I so desperately wanted to rekindle. Perhaps, one day, humanity would find its way back to the path of reason, would learn to listen more than it spoke, to understand more than it judged. I will remain here contemplating, a poet who ran away from the noise, forever haunted by the beautiful symphony that may never be played. But I continue dreaming. And it’s a beautiful dream, a world of gentle grace, where kindness reigned and wisdom held the hand of fleeting time. Imagine streets where laughter filled the air, and hands once stained by greed sought only peace. And the children dancing without the weight of shadows lurking behind their innocent eyes, growing up under skies painted with compassion rather than the cold colors of indifference, and holding hands instead of clinching their fists. Each heartbeat is a note in the symphony of tomorrow, a song of kindness that stretches beyond the cliffs of despair.

But in the corners lurked the weight of fate, a silence stitched by fear and sorrow. Each choice, a whisper lost to winds of doubt, each voice, a melody drowned in despair. Had we but lingered longer on the path of sensibility, we might have forged a realm with brighter stars, a safe embrace where hope could find its voice.

PART III

My days now are a routine of simple tasks. Chopping wood, drawing water, foraging for edible plants, writing. The writing is the hardest. I had imagined this newfound solitude would unlock a torrent of poetic brilliance, a symphony of insights born from quiet contemplation. Instead, I mostly stare at the blank page, my pen heavy with the weight of disappointment. How do you write about hope when you’ve lost faith in humanity? How do you sing of love when surrounded by so much hate?

Sometimes, I venture out of the woods, a stealthy observer in the small town a few miles away. I watch people in the grocery store, their faces glued to their phones, oblivious to the world around them. I see them arguing over parking spaces, complaining about the price of gas, blindly consuming the carefully curated narratives fed to them by algorithms and talking heads.

One evening, I found myself sitting by the creek, watching the fireflies dance in the twilight. The air was still and quiet, only for the gentle murmur of the water. I picked up a smooth, grey stone and held it in my hand, feeling its coolness against my skin. It had been shaped by the relentless force of the water, polished and smoothed over countless years.

And I thought about the human mind, and how easily it can be molded and shaped by external forces. By fear, by anger, by propaganda. We are all, in a way, like these stones, vulnerable to the currents of the world.

But the water doesn’t break the stone. It shapes it. It refines it.

Maybe, I thought, that’s what we need. Not escape, but a relentless shaping. A conscious effort to resist the currents of negativity and division, to cultivate empathy and understanding, to choose love over hate, even when it’s the hardest thing to do. A testament to the enduring power of the human spirit, the capacity for resilience and redemption that lies dormant within us all. I know I can’t save the world from my cabin in the woods. I know that the forces of stupidity and division are powerful and pervasive. But I can save myself. And by saving myself, I can offer a glimmer of hope to others.

I started leaving small notes in the town library, tucked inside books of poetry and philosophy. Short, simple messages of hope, empathy, and understanding. I didn’t sign them. I didn’t seek recognition. I just wanted to plant a seed, a tiny spark of light in the darkness.

One day, I found a note tucked inside a book of Walt Whitman’s poems. It was written in a shaky hand, the ink slightly smudged. It read: “Thank you. I needed this.”

That was enough.

I still spend most of my time in the woods, tending my garden, chopping wood, and writing. But now, I also volunteer at the local kitchen, helping to serve meals to the homeless and the hungry. I listen to their stories, I offer them a kind word, a moment of human connection.

I haven’t rejoined social media. I haven’t bought a new laptop. But I have reconnected with humanity in a small, meaningful way.

The world is still a mess. People are still arguing, still fighting, making wars, and terrible decisions. But I’ve learned that I can’t control the world. I can only control my actions, my thoughts, and my own choices.

And I choose to believe that even in the face of overwhelming stupidity, even in the depths of despair, love and understanding are still possible. That the power of the human mind, when used with intention and compassion, can still shape the world for the better.

It’s a long, arduous process, this slow shaping of ourselves and our world. But we must endure. We must resist the currents of negativity and division. We must remember the mountain that stands firm through every trial nature throws at it. Remember the rain that constantly falls to cleanse the unclean. Remember the enduring power of love, which can only sprout hope and forgiveness. Because if we don’t, silence will be all that remains. Not the pregnant silence of hope, but the desolate silence of regret, the haunting echoes of what might have flourished, if only the threads of life had been spun more gently. And that, I fear, is a silence from which there is no return. The silence of a world that could have been, a world that we let slip away. A world drowned in a sea of stupidity, where the echoes of love are but faint whispers in the wind.