The Wanderer’s Soliloquy

You know, I think sometimes… if, for just one day, I could have really mattered to somebody, I would have been a happy man. But I’m like everyone else. We’re all just drops falling on an ocean that absorbs and forgets us as fast as we fall.

I would have loved to have been the hero of my own great story; instead, I wander out here, alone, cold, and full of the knowledge that whatever I could have been, I will never be. I am empty, futile, bereft — homeless.

I hear the gulls crying across the way, and they make more sense to me now than anything ever has. They have not forgotten, and their cries speak volumes. They circle and circle, going nowhere; scratching out a living among dead and decaying things along this shore.

These words I read so many times as a boy come back to me —

Then I returned and considered all the oppression that is done under the sun:

And look! The tears of the oppressed,
But they have no comforter—
On the side of their oppressors there is power,
But they have no comforter.
Therefore I praised the dead who were already dead,
More than the living who are still alive.
Yet, better than both is he who has never existed,
Who has not seen the evil work that is done under the sun.

Again, I saw that for all toil and every skillful work a man is envied by his neighbor. This also is vanity and grasping for the wind.

The fool folds his hands
And consumes his own flesh.
Better a handful with quietness
Than both hands full, together with toil and grasping for the wind.

I know I’m a fool: but we are all born with strengths, and folly has been chief among mine. We all come into this world confused, angry, and disoriented; I’m just one of the lucky ones who never left that state.

Human beings tell each other how to live all the time. Even though none of us know a damn thing about anything.

Least of all me.

 All this I have proved by wisdom.

I said, “I will be wise”;
But it was far from me.

As for that which is far off and exceedingly deep,
Who can find it out?

I applied my heart to know,
To search and seek out wisdom and the reason of things,
To know the wickedness of folly,
Even of foolishness and madness.

Author: Sibelius Russell

Sibelius Russell (a/k/a/ Owen "Beleaguered" Servant) lives a life of whimsical servitude -- whatever that means.

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