Lately life has been feeling like a series of chess games. A game of strategy where it’s necessary to be able to see ten steps ahead, to deceive your opponent, to outwit whoever is on the opposite side of the board. Except half the time I don’t even know who I’m up against, often my turn gets skipped, or I’m divided between so many different games I forget where I left off on one and make the wrong move in another.

And frankly, I’m tired of playing. I never was much of one for chess anyway. Never was a pro at deception and obscurity of intention. I’ve always thrived on being an open book, and haven’t ever really been afraid of what another might read. I prefer to be in situations where if someone comes across a grammatical error or a misspelled word, they will clearly but kindly point out my error, so I don’t continue typing down the page making the same mistake over and over again.

But I find I’m no longer writing a narrative and instead have sat at the chess table, without realizing I’ve done so. I may have made it to the point where at any moment I’m going to hear “checkmate.” But since I always look for the silver lining in anything, I think I’ll keep clinging to the hope that sometimes when you lose, you win.

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