The juxtaposition of life and chess is that they inhabit a vividly defined schism.
A little monologue to the opposition who does too much but accomplishes too little, and lies there exasperated, frothing, porcelain pale, cold dead on the inside despite a “net worth” of many a fillion.
(What's a fillion.... IDK, like a fillet billionaire that folds. Haha.)
The schism is that sometimes you don’t need to colonize a planet that possibly only exists in projected pieces of propaganda.
The itch to make a move, isn’t a mandate in life.
You can disengage...checkout….clock out…pause…watch those monkeys dance for you and “NOT” make a move thereby pulling off the biggest magic trick the world has ever seen.
As everyone’s sprawling like the city traffic on either side, you could be that one lad on the divider embracing inactivity. Waiting for everyone to make their fillion moves entangle themselves, obfuscate their own ways in their own folly, get whooped by the traffic cop, get mauled by the horns, burnt out by switching between gear 1 & 2 on the snail-paced sequence of cars.
Until they realize they don't have it in them to go all in, full throttle.
Once all their chips are over and their stuck with their back against the footpath….
You could moon walk on the zebra crossing into an unequivocally enamoring victory as they glare at you stunned.
You can turn back and say, you moved! Ehehehe.
Yes, you made too many moves!
So, I just cut back my moves, to let you fill in your half with folly.
That’s the difference between a checkmate and a Zechmate.
The schism between Chess and Life.
You make the moves I wanted you to make, digging yourself a hole and I have to simply blow onto your forehead to drop you in.
Inactivity averts much disaster when you lack vision and direction. You can pause to comprehend, contemplate and strike pinpoint precise, strike hard when you’ve locked in.
Strike on the forehead.
The Frothing Fillionaire
// poetry
Ostensibly there are no planets
Flying on a propaganda popcorn air shuttle.
It seemed to be popping like a lie,
The real flying machine was being a Human Rebuttal.
All that we know I questioned,
Excruciatingly damned flying on a popcorn...
I flew like a truth shuttle past the stratosphere,
Scythe through as the nocturnal ox licks the goad till the morn.
Gliding abode an enfeebling and feeble popcorn
The Creator nudged me to violently make some moves.
Less contemplation, I pressed every button to find the Right Answers,
Process of elimination took me from Assumptions to Absolutes.
The Autonomous SpaceShuttle much refutes
I possessed and inhabited a new poised spaceship.
It cut well and deep like a truth blade,
It whooped the lies, the truthers did it equip.
Chaotic scattering it did not give impetus to,
It gathered and shepherded the picturesque few.
Like an ever glowing, glistening SpaceShip
It set Pro Life, Pro Truth Patterns anew.
Pebbles and stones onto the Spaceship they ever pelt
Some insecure rubbish bone heads preaching "Road and Belt"
Soaring through many spatial barb wires of thought,
Incrementally greater indifference and confidence the SpaceShip has ever felt.
Mastered not the tile this obstinate human race
Confidence endless merely knows to tie a lace!
Immortality research motivated boundless to touch the sky,
Array of hallucinations of world domination, eternally decomposing case.
I deduced I'm powered up on a paper plane,
It sufficed just fine supernaturally sustained.
Motivated by the Creator's breath, it out flew many spaceships,
A Paradox it outlasted many moons that waned.
My Bye-Bye Statement: "Outlasted many times the heart pained. It hovered through the magical Lane."
fillion.
oops
*fin.
