poem

 Train StationThe game ofLifedidn ’t age well. No one plays it anymore. Half the pieces are missing. Half the family’s dead. Its gilded suburbia a Potemkin sham. Fake money all gone. Besides, it ' s too much like real life. Insurance premiums going up, escrow shortages. Estate taxes on the bachelor uncle everyone hated so he left it all to you. When life itself is just a game, the game itself stops being any fun.Riskis more of the same. A strategy distilled down to the heaviest gas. Domination, manipulation. Betrayal and degradation. But it ’s all just roll of the dice luck. And much less fun when there’s absolutely nothing at stake. Tomorrow, and every day after that, everything real goes back on the line. Risk becomes less appealing. You toggle from seeing that nothing really matters to not being able to let go of a single goddam thing. So you plant your flag in Australia and mass your armies at the border. Every time it’s your turn you pass.  Attack no one. And then, at the end, when you ’re completely outnumbered, under siege and there’s nothing you can hope to do, the meaning of the wordinevitablefinally becomes lucidly clear. Which obviates any concerns, once and for all, vis-a-vis risk. There ’s a game stashed deep in the closet calledCapitalismbut anyone who has ever played it either ends up dead or conscripted as characters in the game itself and can ’t ever get out of it. My dad is still there, as a matter of fact. Lots of people are. Som...
Source: Buckeye Surgeon - Category: Surgery Authors: Source Type: blogs