That game we play, you always win.
No matter how skilled, how talented, how strong I am, I always accept defeat. Your rules are bent to serve you. Our limits are meant to serve you.
Even if your habit is to broadcast your victories as loudly as possible and make them known as far as you can; from here to the opposite side of the world, still my wins are visible in the sheer volume, the abundance of them. Call them yours or not. You may have the guns, but I have the numbers.
No matter how often my standards are voiced, you shout them down to boost your sub-standards. It’s like a really loud garage band, insisting that their every note is a sold-out concert. I get it. You want that reality so bad, you have to say you can see it before you actually see it. Package your rage before it escapes. It might not return.
Returns aren’t what we’re after though, we’re after retorts. We’re after witty verbal slaps and creating the fictional character traits we call ourselves. We’re into creating the fake faults, so we can continue the fake insults. You and I take each other seriously as long as we’re creating imaginary worlds of hurt and offense.
Watch as I tear your false reality down. Watch as your alternate reality crumbles, and then, like always, I forgive you and let you build it up again. All for the sake of the game.
Xenosthesia.com 