Wisdom

--insightful understanding of what is true, right or enduring
--natural good judgment

"It's easier not to be wise." --Live, "I Alone"

It is a gift I never asked for and wouldn’t have if given the choice. It is the one trait all judge me by. All of it depends on my answers to their questions. And they only asked the hardest ones. If I tell them something they don’t want to hear, they often learn to fear me. But if my answer is pleasant, they bow at my feet in worship. I suppose it is because I am never wrong.

How I wish I was sometimes, though. Just once or twice. Just so these people would stop trusting me so wholly with this impossible task. It isn’t right. It’s not fair that I should be able to deliver such news to them and then send them off on their way with only a wave of my hand, no way to offer consolation because they know I never lie.

Of course, there are worse things than never being wrong.

There is a young man standing before me now. He had entered into the room with a straight back and regally held shoulders. I could have believed he was a prince of some sort if not for his tattered clothing, his greasy, tousled hair that might have once been a dark blonde or a light brown. His eyes met mine, something that had never happened to me before.

When he spoke his case, however, all appearance of confidence faded away. His voice trembled as he spun his tale. He bowed his head and his shoulders slumped. His hair hung in his face, hiding his expression from me though I could have guessed it from the despair that began to lace its way into his words. His gaze eventually left mine, choosing instead to rest on the floor beneath his feet.

When he finished his tale, he stayed in this position for a moment before dropping to his knees, touching his forehead to the ground. He waits patiently for my answer.

But I have none to give.

Yes, there certainly are things worse than never being wrong. There are even worse things than being wrong once in a while. There is not knowing.

It has been many long moments since he posed his question to me and I am still struggling for words, choking as they get stuck in my throat, unused to this sensation. He is still bowing before me, but his shoulders are beginning to shake and all composure is lost. He has traveled far only to be met with a brick wall of despair in the place where his last hope could have been born.

I hear myself sigh and find myself standing. I step down from the pedestal I have been set upon and walk softly up to him. I bend down painfully so that when I touch his shoulder and he looks up, I am eye to eye with him. Those blue eyes that were so brave before are reluctant now and filled with tears besides.

I can offer no comfort to those whose fate I am certain of. But since I have no answers for this lost soul, perhaps this will be one of the times where I can offer some consolation.

Making the first abrupt decision of my life, I lean over and kiss him gently, once on both cheeks and then a ghostlike one on his lips. He is startled by this, perhaps even repulsed by the feel of my cracked lips on his smooth ones, but he does not pull way.

When I break away from him, I stare once more into his eyes. Now I am the one asking questions and he is compelled to answer.

“Nothing,” he whispers.

And then he runs.

My wisdom has failed me.

"Intelligence talks, wisdom listens."
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