Driftwood Monologue 

My life is a drifting, a constant shuffling forward. Who holds the cards? I do not know the name of the god who is in charge of this, the gambling god, the one with the quick hands at the table. In ancient times, there was a god in charge of everything, from the crops growing to the rain falling, to the children coming.

What has happened to them, those figures shrouded in dust, age, and wisdom? Are they skimming leaves in a pond somewhere in eternity, with new bleach-blonde hair? Have they become baristas (it surely seems to be a growing market)? To whom can I address these celestial questions? Whenever I ask them, I only get blank stares or, worse yet, a half-hearted, half-construed answer. I have discovered that I may be the proverbial one-eyed man in a kingdom of the blind, and perhaps this is a promethean curse. 

Perhaps I assisted my fellow human in one way or another, and am therefore drifting without memory of my true purpose. Or perhaps this is the purpose: To drift, the floating, the finding, to ascend on the sands of the beach, stumble forward, go on and multiply. Then divide. Then factor. Then learn the FOIL method. Clearly, I am just troubleshooting here. Clearly, the map of some deity would make all this much more clarified. Clearly.

JD DeHart