Mikhail Yurievich Lermontov - nobleman, poet, the ultimate superfluous man... in a word, my hero. He died in a duel, most likely in which he intended so to do.
And so I sit here, waiting to hear from silent voices, alive or dead - what is the difference?
But we have the creature comforts to absolve the sins of modernity. I sit awaiting an appointment to some such office or an other that most likely will never come - what is the difference?
People do not think of their actions any further, and they have not done for some time.
I know not when sincerity was lost, or found, or conjured up entirely...
You spoke of sailing? Quite a decent metaphor, though I despise metaphors. Sailing is mute. Sailing is dead. Sailing is now the past-time of the more comfortably ignorant. And I mean to make no offense, for my father suffered much from the art - he quite literally broke his back in the race of some finer yacht. But to me, as one well enough familiar with the sport, all are now becalmed, and we sit in an ocean looking for a decent breeze that will not come.
I wished that I could at most times seem relevant, but I could not. I am wholly irrelevant. I, like Lermontov, should dissolve in to obscurity to most, as it would be better.
Dear God! I have become a blogger...
Yours, etc.
Kitaev the Superfluous.
