The world is whatever game you make it up to be.
You could make it about avenging a villain or an abuser.
It could be about Eagles green or Wrexham red or Yankee blue or Lakers purple.
Some people do that for a portion of their script.
You could make it about soaring, bubbling love.
About political winners and losers and the best thing for all of us.
About the rules and righteousness.
About breaking rules and lawlessness and derring do.
It’s all up to you.
And those are simply large games with lots of other players in agreement about the teams, the plays, the sequences and the desired outcomes.
There’s a symphony of sorts there.
But an individual alone on a barren landscape could make it about something much less.
Something unknown but right under foot.
Something unusual and smelled but forgotten quickly.
Something haunting that comes back in a new disguise every few years.
Something delightful, like the way a wave spits mist at the end of its hunching.
A walking game over the tops of monuments that lead to sewers.
Other manholes that, if read backward, say “no side.”
A game where you have no allies but everything, every whisper from tree and bird wing is on all sides of you – in, out and throughout.
A game about anti-games where you place rocks in patterns and statues on city trails.
Where time is measured by the ripeness of fruit and the airplane departure schedule.
A simple game where the light of the sun shows you things you hadn’t noticed before.
One about loss of everything and gaining entirety, lovely entirety.
Where nothing plays against you and all plays for you.
A charming game of your own making.
