When the Game is Rigged
A Romance
When the game is rigged…
The biggest money players set the market.
The most obsessed chess wizards know all the moves.
The bestselling authors nail all the conventions.
The politicians wield the whole dirty playbook.
The oddsmakers know the inside dope.
The jazz mavens practice all the progressions till they’re blue in the face.
The winning coaches concoct the superior schemes.
The most convincing researchers uncover the deepest sources.
Competition rewards the best prepared.
Competition favors the most resources.
Competition selects for the sharpest skills.
The best hunter gloats over his trophies, hosts the most lavish feasts.
The spiritual adept touts his years of study and meditation, lists his most venerable gurus.
The psychonaut tallies his trips, his pharmacopoeia, his shamanic lineage.
The Don Juan or female counterpart recounts their conquests, their trail of broken hearts.
The dedicated dreamer ventures all the way out of the body and back to tell the tale.
The gamester who logs the most hours collects the most tokens.
The AI early adopter trains it to reproduce his own worldview, word for word.
Where does all that competition leave this babe in the woods, this neophyte, this innocent of intent?
A rabbit among wolves.
A libertarian recluse, caught captive in a nest of Jacobins, a net of Bolsheviks, a web of woke harpies.
A free spirit, a strummer of songs, a different drummer.
A wanderer of wilderness, a lover of mystique, following intuition to no certain destination.
A specialist of no defined niche, influencer of no identified tribe.
A conundrum wrapped in enigma, clothed in transient fancy, then naked of dogma or script.
The energies unwind to stillness.
The world lies open to view, all the games on pause.
In the predawn hour, insect hum. At high noon, an all-consuming glare.
There is something more to do. There is this witness, this slow dance, this breath.
A resolution, neither to succeed or surrender, yet to sustain, holding that note.
A dwelling within the expanding walls of time. A coming home to you.
Remember this, when the game is rigged—every man for himself, dog eat dog, winner takes all.
Find another to watch from the stands, stroll from the stadium, kiss in the parking lot.
Watch the sunset, hand in hand.
Listen to her story, her exploits and disappointments, and find common cause.
Savor the night, and the rising of the light.
