the kirkyard

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Six Of A Hundred Days

I can't write. What is there to say? Maybe it is time to maintain a silent life. To tamp down anger and judgment. To shut the speech of knowing it all. To feel what I've created within me and mourn. To know and understand that there are no finer points to life. Life just is. And I am.

My coffee tastes especially good this morning. Some mornings are like that. Some mornings aren't. This morning and its coffee shouldn't be sipped and savored. It should be gulped and forgotten.

But I sit. Butt sitting. One spot. The day is starting to take its place. But the curtain never rises. Butted in place. I cannot act.

Freeform is not free. It keeps its place. Understand?

There is nothing more satisfying than winning the very first game of solitaire of the day. I am a Klondike Grandmaster. I have lived up to my title. I am a Norse god. For this moment it's better than my coffee. The coffee has gone cold. Oh solitaire. You will not grow cold on me too will you. I need to win. Winning never grows cold. Or does it? I may never know. I click new game anyways. And...

"No more moves! You have run out of moves. Good game!" A good game is running out of moves? Uncompleted? Unfulfilled? Unmoved? Then I have won! I am a Grandmaster!

But then why don't I feel good? Why does it feel like it's just a game to lose? We all lose in the end. Even if you think you've achieved small victories, you're fooling yourself. Or you've been setup. You've been had.

Click.

"No more moves! You have run out of moves. Good game!"

Losers have played a good game. The object is not to win. The object is is to keep running out of moves. Losers and winners are the same. They have run out of moves. But why are the winners never congratulated for running out of moves?

It's because they have lost too. Winning and losing is a solitary game.

Click.


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