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For what is a man profited, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul? or what shall a man give in exchange for his soul?
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On the most recent of many sunny Philadelphia days, John Adams once again finds himself alone in the bell tower after having stormed out of yet another Congress meeting.
It does not take long for his fingers to stop quivering with residual rage this time, leaving behind a startlingly familiar hollowness within.
Lately more than ever, in these minutes of peace and quiet reflection, he can admit to himself—he has grown weary of it all.
Of inhaling Philadelphia's vacuous fumes, of spending every last bit of strength on trying to convince men as ingrained in their ways as a tree rooted in the dirt—far from what John felt in the beginning, he now finds himself wistful of an existence in which he was never the one destined to forever defend independence with his every waking hour.
Sometimes it feels like there is no longer a world outside of Philadelphia; or, indeed, a him outside of Pennsylvania State House's stuffy hallways.
Most embarrassingly, his eyes sting at that, and he turns away, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth, breathing carefully until the lump in his throat dissipates.
He tried, has been trying for years.
And no matter what he does, no matter what vitriol he spits at the men he shares most of his days with, it still feels like he's no closer to finishing what he started.
In his uttermost moments of doubt, such as now, he can't help but think that maybe he has only himself to blame for that.
After all, it is no secret that he holds the honourable title of being the most disliked man in all of Congress. Obnoxious, insufferable, intransigent—all adjectives he is more than used to, and he knows they all hold a modicum of truth in them, and yet.
And yet.
Franklin has made a habit of advising him to lay low, keep his mouth shut. Win them over with carefully constructed arguments coated in sweet, mellisonant words. Be meticulous in his thoughts, and even more so in his conduct. Repress the voice of independency until it may ring out loud and clear with not a single will to silence it.
John sometimes wishes nothing more than to be capable of such.
If there is anything he is conscious of, it is his defects, of which he owns quite a few. And he is well aware of them, has made peace with being as a man far from perfect—and still.
If he were not so, would his cause have progressed any further?
Is perhaps the thing standing between America and independence not the ignorance of the other delegates, but John Adams himself?
John sighs. Walks over to the barrier separating him from the world outside and leans on the railing, looking out over the filthy expanse, the dumping ground that is Philadelphia.
"Abigail?"
His wife is not actually there, he knows, but he smiles wanly as though she is, hoping that maybe 300 miles away she is thinking of him, and maybe the image of him in her head outshines the man standing solitary in a tower above a building full of people who hate him.
"I'm so tired, Abigail."
The Philadelphia streets don't reply. They never do.