It’s very painful to be forced to play the game (a) when you know it’s one and (b) when you are really shit at playing it cos you don’t much like its aesthetics. So much unnecessary suffering. Too much excess, too much false scarcity. You do believe you’d prefer to not know this now, to just be able to go blindly. Peacefully. Hazily. Believing this world is the best one we could possibly have.
To know it could be a different game if only we could all move our pieces to a different board seems to be a pointless understanding though, ultimately. What does that give you, at this stage, but an extra dose of claustrophobia. It is a board though, one option of many. It’s not a stone tablet, handed down to us from The Machine. The Machine gives us a nothing, an opaque nothing, where it doesn’t need to mean anything anymore, doesn’t need a picture. Obedience, yes, but a picture, eh. The more meaningless the better, all in service to the futile quest of making the Metaverse more real than the earth under your feet.
You dine with your mother, delicious Japanese pancakes. You suggest to her your idea of a bank loan, so you can buy a campervan. You hate this idea. You hate all the alternatives. You do not want to live with anyone else, ever again, but you cannot find anything you can afford to rent because property takes precedence over housing within this game. The campervan is one desperate option and you feel shame at its thought.
Maybe it would be fine once you got used to it. You could buy a bull mastiff from the Keysborough animal shelter to help you not get so easily raped at the side of the road. Not that you’d be able to park anywhere willy nilly of course. This is Australia. There must be millions of rules about where and when and how you can park.
But then what about being raped at the bowser (just because they can)? It would cost a lot to fill up a big-arse camper. Maybe you should have a waggon instead, painted red with yellow trim, drawn by a couple of draught horses who you could rent out to CUB when they drag out their horse and cart promos at the footy games that are back, and which you can no longer attend, them being cold and blarey and unfriendly while constantly telling you about their inclusivity. A team wearing orange socks to perform its spectacle of being against domestic violence. All these domestically violent. If only they’d listen to a bunch of well-paid ex-private schoolboys tell them to stop being stretched beyond themselves. Just stop it. It’s easy.
Today, you’re not sure you haven’t run out of things to say on this here Substack whatsit that won’t be translated out into pointless complaining. What is there to say that other people can’t say with a more positive hustle vibe? What is your point? What is there to say? Only everything. Too much to say so that it all pools together, and there is nothing you can say. Nothing you can say without feeling there is no point to the saying. What’s the data in this? Where’s the deliverable?
One more game you’re not much good at playing.