The Hope Of Others

I receive e-mail. Some messages are dismissive, a very small percentage of those evincing outrage at the thought of my existence, either as fact or farce. There are notes from those few people with whom I maintain semi-regular correspondence. Finally, and perhaps most disturbingly, there are those who seem to find some small sliver of hope in my scribblings here. To them I can only reply- I do not understand.

I have never accomplished anything of note. I did not rescue Jews from the Holocaust. I did not spirit escaped slaves along the Underground Railroad. I did not hold the plague at bay, nor lead any peoples to either greatness or destruction. I never eased life’s burdens upon Men. I have inspired no poets, tortured no romantics, discovered no transcendental truths… in short, there are no great acts I might point to with pride. The bulk of my life has been spent in the underside of humanity, amongst the poor, or the low, or the vile. What pride I might allow myself is writ upon the ledgers of the mundane.

I have acted to change things, to shape my surroundings to suit my liking, but those times are best left without comment. My capacity for monstrous behavior haunts me, and it is no small factor in the confusion that now surrounds me. It would be so simple to force matters in a direction more acceptable, but I cannot escape the fear such a notion brings upon me.

I compare the vast majority of my life against the last eleven decades and it leaves me somewhat at a loss. The sudden abandonment of the lifestyle that served my purposes so well for so long has unsettled me- I am uncertain of my direction, my place in these times. This journal is little more than the latest manifestation of the confusion that has ruled me since I cast aside the shadows. That recent events have driven home the folly of such a life only compounds my foolishness- faced with the certainty I should return to those dark and comfortable spaces I once called mine I instead choose stubborn denial.

That some find hope in this… it is yet more proof that no one can truly understand the workings of the inner human being.

3 Responses to “The Hope Of Others”

  1. So?

  2. Forgive me. If this appears obtuse it is solely due to my poor attempt at meaningful prose.

  3. On the one hand, it’s a nice writing “device” to be 3500 years old.

    On the other, it would be nice to believe that someone, somehow, inexplicably lived 3500 years.

    Gives hope that maybe I’m the next one…

    But what I like is that you write that you’ve never been famous or important, just … ordinary. It’s always the nutjobs who were past “heros” and the like. “I was Napoleon” blah blah blah.

    (like, who’d want to be Napoleon for Thor’s sake?)

    Me? I want more stories of how a “short” scotch-swilling self-hinted-at-hottie eked out 3500 years.

    And, of course, lots of stories about sex in ancient times. Sheesh. You must have outdone Dr. J by a coupla thousand (was it Dr. J who claimed more than 20,000 women?).

    Yeah. That’s what I wonder about when I read this site…

    …but only because if I live 3500 years…