This game I play

I wanted to draw something, but I was too lazy. So here’s a picture of my hand.

Act 1

I see myself.

It’s usually in the few seconds after I pull my body off the bed, that I begin my game. Call it a movie, actually. Over the years, it’s only got more conflicted and chaotic. But that’s what makes a good story, right?

I do not remember ever willfully signing up for this game. Just something I have been playing ever since I started forming memories. Or maybe I started way back and I can’t recall any of it, anymore.

Either way, it’s a game I play fervently.

The rules of the game are simple.

There’s a universe. I am at the centre of it. Everything revolves around me.

And everything will be figured out.

At least in my head, that is.

In this game, you don’t just enjoy a song. You firstly over-analyze what message your music taste signals, then feel smug about your superior taste for exactly 36 seconds before realising that you don’t actually like the song.

In this game, you don’t write. But you do think a lot about writing. And for some reason, you spend a lot of time daydreaming about typewriters. Also long cardigans and cigarettes, (even though you don’t smoke, nor do you plan to).

In this game you don’t laugh. Oh, but you do hear how awful your laughter sounds. Like a horse having concussions. Then you search up whether horses have concussions or not, because oh well, what if they don’t? Making a mistake is not accepted in this universe — Sir, it’s a strict no-no.

In this game, nothing holds any value if it isn’t seen. Everything has to be exhibited, if not, then did it even exist in the first place? And before it is put up for display, it needs to be played a minimum of hundred times within your head, edited and re-touched, because the story needs to be cool, right?

In this game, emotions feel a little manufactured, because what you really feel, is either unbecoming, cringe-inducing or unacceptable to your storyline. Your words are all trimmed and polished, and a little cliche. Your opinions are not yours, just a repetition of whatever article you last read. Or whatever the person you hold on a pedestal insisted was right.

You have stopped looking out to the world. You are no longer a bewildered traveller in an unknown land.

Just a weary director, busy editing the story of me.

Act 2

Windchime, window, wind.

Time flies. The water is stained with the deep red of the tea leaves. A bird sings in the distance. The sky is turning dark.

Words are being written. There’s a crackle of laughter, somewhere in the corner.

Someone complains about the state of the world. Another offers consolation. Conversations fill the air.

There’s music, some of it sublime.

There are people, some sweet, some annoying.

There is the tree outside the window that has dressed in a blanket of pink flowers. There’s also the birds that have begun making their nest and the wind chime that rings gently as if encouraging their efforts at building their own home.

You are there somewhere too, somewhere in the glorious cacophony of this brilliant world you suddenly found yourself in.

There really is a lot in here,

But there’s nothing to figure out. Nothing to see.

Just a little life, well-lived.



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