Game of Life
When it came down to it, there was no answer. There were possible solutions, but no real answer. There couldn’t be an answer, for there was no discernible problem. It wasn’t a matter of, if A=B and C=D than A+C=B+D. That would make too much sense, would be too logical. Logic was once her strong suit, was the only stability that she could seemingly hold onto in life. However, once logic failed, she did not know how to function in the realm of emotion. Emotion left one too open, too exposed. Exposure is the means by which one gets hurt. Hurt - the pandemic ill of mankind, was something she was not used to.
There were four possible solutions, but none seemed to satisfy the internal inquiry. There was no dark room, no spotlight on which the “clues” could be figured out. There was no interrogation, perhaps because the investigator did not want to delve that deeply.
How much could one sacrifice before they had sacrificed too much? Every ounce of internal strength had been given to everyone else, to everything else. There was not room left for emotion, for all emotion had been drained by time and the need to be perfect. It was if she was living in some bizarre, badly written, and whiny-voiced combination of an Alanis Morisette and Tori Amos song.
Self-induced, self-diagnosed perfectionism seemed to be a potential clue in the quest for an answer. It wasn’t as linear as the hero’s cycle our buddy Joseph Campbell theorized. The answer remained obtuse if there was no question. The quest could not reach completion if one did not ascertain the two world of which they were to conquer. Perhaps the question that remained was “What happens when the perfect one finally fails?” Yes, what happens when the “strong” one, the one who has held it together for everyone else fails, even at something simple? Sure, there have been small failures along the way, but nothing to blow the air of calm superiority that had been cultivated, and yet hidden for so many years. The undercurrent existed. She knew she was not perfect, nor could she ever be. no
one
could
But one could try, couldn’t they? They could try to eradicate all the imperfections, to hemorrhage them out, to fully remove that which they could control. bulimia.
The cost would be far too much. Could the answer be to strive for the perfection despite the physical costs? (For the emotional do not matter to the logically minded.) At what point does one draw the line? At what point does one realize that they have lost THEMSELVES?
Themselves. Everyone, even the perfectionist, has a vision of what they are, what they were, and what they could become. The perfectionist realizes that intrinsically, as what they were is subjugated to the “what they are” which in turn is relegated to the lower position than the “what they could become.” What if that chain was broken? What if the “what they are” is significantly removed from the “what they were”? And even farther away from the ideal. Maybe the ideal has changed. Maybe it’s not like the game of LIFE, where all you really want is that blue pin sitting in the car next to your pink one and maybe a few other pink and blue pin kids. Maybe reality is more like a game of Chutes and Ladders. Yes, the ladder may bring you up to the next level, but maybe what you really want is to slide down the chute to recover something that you may have lost earlier on in the game. The question remains, though: are you willing to get out of your plastic orange car and set out on foot, maybe being forced to slide down more chutes than you were willing, or are you going to put more money in the plastic gas guzzler so that you can be a MILLIONAIRE at the end of the game?
Is it a game, and if so, are everyone forced to play? What happens to those who don’t play the game, or who play by their own rules? When you’re in kindergarten, those who don’t play by the rules get their name on the board. In high school, they are rewarded with referrals and the dismissal of their peers because they don’t play the same way as everyone else. However, the road after that is twofold. One could always go back to the sickeningly idealistic Robert Frost poem. You know, the one about the two roads diverging in the forest. Yes, he took the road less traveled by, and that made all the difference for him. But, what about all those other wannabe Frosts? Those who took the road, only to be greeted with a puddle of mudd, or a slap in the face. Can you turn back and get on the other road, or must you continually trudge into uncharted territories?
What if you take the oft-trodden road out of fear of what the one “less traveled” will turn out like? Can one live their entire life masking that they didn’t want to live in the shade, in a hole? Is the vacuum of society worth not falling in the puddle. Yet, can that mask ever be fully removed?
If not, life would be one continual game of “dress up,” but, unlike in one’s youth, it wasn’t the neighborhood kids dressing up with you. You would be the only one dressing up, putting on the mask of conformity for the new “neighbors” that have moved into your life. Your costume trunk is not full as it once was. You had discarded those fairy wings years ago. You don’t remember the last time that you really needed that cape in society. All you need now is your GAP costume, fresh off the rack and (lucky for you) matching everything else in the trunk. You too can now be one of those brightly colored swing dancers (for being a swing kid was once a costume option) that perform those fancy moves on the commercial. You too can look like a clone of everyone else. You too can own a fuschia jean jacket.
It’s all in your costume trunk.
All you need to do is put it on.
You want to put it on, don’t you?
It’s so easy. Everything matches. Everything looks the same.
Everyone.. Everything looks the same.
Perhaps the problem, could it be defined, was not the costuming, but the set.
There were four possible solutions, but none seemed to satisfy the internal inquiry. There was no dark room, no spotlight on which the “clues” could be figured out. There was no interrogation, perhaps because the investigator did not want to delve that deeply.
How much could one sacrifice before they had sacrificed too much? Every ounce of internal strength had been given to everyone else, to everything else. There was not room left for emotion, for all emotion had been drained by time and the need to be perfect. It was if she was living in some bizarre, badly written, and whiny-voiced combination of an Alanis Morisette and Tori Amos song.
Self-induced, self-diagnosed perfectionism seemed to be a potential clue in the quest for an answer. It wasn’t as linear as the hero’s cycle our buddy Joseph Campbell theorized. The answer remained obtuse if there was no question. The quest could not reach completion if one did not ascertain the two world of which they were to conquer. Perhaps the question that remained was “What happens when the perfect one finally fails?” Yes, what happens when the “strong” one, the one who has held it together for everyone else fails, even at something simple? Sure, there have been small failures along the way, but nothing to blow the air of calm superiority that had been cultivated, and yet hidden for so many years. The undercurrent existed. She knew she was not perfect, nor could she ever be. no
one
could
But one could try, couldn’t they? They could try to eradicate all the imperfections, to hemorrhage them out, to fully remove that which they could control. bulimia.
The cost would be far too much. Could the answer be to strive for the perfection despite the physical costs? (For the emotional do not matter to the logically minded.) At what point does one draw the line? At what point does one realize that they have lost THEMSELVES?
Themselves. Everyone, even the perfectionist, has a vision of what they are, what they were, and what they could become. The perfectionist realizes that intrinsically, as what they were is subjugated to the “what they are” which in turn is relegated to the lower position than the “what they could become.” What if that chain was broken? What if the “what they are” is significantly removed from the “what they were”? And even farther away from the ideal. Maybe the ideal has changed. Maybe it’s not like the game of LIFE, where all you really want is that blue pin sitting in the car next to your pink one and maybe a few other pink and blue pin kids. Maybe reality is more like a game of Chutes and Ladders. Yes, the ladder may bring you up to the next level, but maybe what you really want is to slide down the chute to recover something that you may have lost earlier on in the game. The question remains, though: are you willing to get out of your plastic orange car and set out on foot, maybe being forced to slide down more chutes than you were willing, or are you going to put more money in the plastic gas guzzler so that you can be a MILLIONAIRE at the end of the game?
Is it a game, and if so, are everyone forced to play? What happens to those who don’t play the game, or who play by their own rules? When you’re in kindergarten, those who don’t play by the rules get their name on the board. In high school, they are rewarded with referrals and the dismissal of their peers because they don’t play the same way as everyone else. However, the road after that is twofold. One could always go back to the sickeningly idealistic Robert Frost poem. You know, the one about the two roads diverging in the forest. Yes, he took the road less traveled by, and that made all the difference for him. But, what about all those other wannabe Frosts? Those who took the road, only to be greeted with a puddle of mudd, or a slap in the face. Can you turn back and get on the other road, or must you continually trudge into uncharted territories?
What if you take the oft-trodden road out of fear of what the one “less traveled” will turn out like? Can one live their entire life masking that they didn’t want to live in the shade, in a hole? Is the vacuum of society worth not falling in the puddle. Yet, can that mask ever be fully removed?
If not, life would be one continual game of “dress up,” but, unlike in one’s youth, it wasn’t the neighborhood kids dressing up with you. You would be the only one dressing up, putting on the mask of conformity for the new “neighbors” that have moved into your life. Your costume trunk is not full as it once was. You had discarded those fairy wings years ago. You don’t remember the last time that you really needed that cape in society. All you need now is your GAP costume, fresh off the rack and (lucky for you) matching everything else in the trunk. You too can now be one of those brightly colored swing dancers (for being a swing kid was once a costume option) that perform those fancy moves on the commercial. You too can look like a clone of everyone else. You too can own a fuschia jean jacket.
It’s all in your costume trunk.
All you need to do is put it on.
You want to put it on, don’t you?
It’s so easy. Everything matches. Everything looks the same.
Everyone.. Everything looks the same.
Perhaps the problem, could it be defined, was not the costuming, but the set.