Players In The Game

What is “The Game” anyway?

Everything is a game. Life . . . love . . . relationships . . .

There are sets of rules – both written and unwritten – that we get to learn as we mature [for most of us at least]. We never intend to be part of the game but the moment we’re born, we are initiated into it as part of belonging to human society whether we like or not.

If I were given a choice, I wouldn’t want to be a part of the game or be a player. I like being a social misfit too much to conform being one of the billions of people populating the known world in the game.

I guess I have inherited my nonconformist attitude from my recently departed father. He taught us – my sisters and I – to be individuals, to become more than what society expects us to be. I think this is the reason why I never really established close relations to most of my relatives. I love being the “odd” kid, the one that never really talks unless being spoken to and the one who will spend most of her time observing other people and imagine them in different awkward scenarios inside her head.

It is both a compliment and a criticism when people put me in a whole different category than everybody else and when labeled as “complicated” when asked to describe me. My eccentricity and idiosyncrasies makes me and Christian Grey [I wish] a match made in the alternate universe heaven. But that’s me. My folks never restricted us to be what we wanted to be. They never curbed our intellects to fit in the societal box.

But then again, upon reflecting, I get to ask myself the ever-present what-ifs.

What if I acted like a stereotyped female of our clan?

What if I have my hair long or look über-feminized just like every other girl in the universe?

What if I never share my opinions or carry on a conversation that is not normally talked about?

What if I always keep my mouth shut whenever a glory-whore starts regaling him/herself through wrong ideas and pronouncements?

What if I am not me?

An image of paper-cut dolls entered my mind. I’ll be like all the other players in “The Game”: same features, same clothes, same attitude and same disposition – a veritable clone of the The Village of the Damned children. I’ll be like a pirated version of  The Stepford Wives minus the weird, polished, not-a-hair-out-of-place look. It’s scary sh*t. Still gives me the chills.

Anyway, because of my arbitrary nature, it makes playing “The Game” both easy and difficult.

Easy: I can just pretend not to be a part of the game and live holed up inside my bubble world.

Difficult: Because no man is an island, there are some aspects of “The Game” that I can’t just turn my light switch off to. I still need to relate so people won’t call the people in the loony institute and put me in a straight jacket.

The game is mighty complicated and difficult, especially for the weak of mind and heart.

Oh, I just wish there’s a consolidated rule book that everyone can follow so there won’t be any problems, glitches, or errors in life anymore.

But just like in any wishful thinking,  reality intrudes and reminds me that life problems will only cease to exist when one dies, which [ironically] is another game to be played in the afterlife if one believes there’s life after death.

Too many games . . . too many players. One sometimes wonder, what is the real endgame?


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