For the sake of a fake checkmate debate

The king is but a fancy wooden pawn whose movements across the board depend
upon the whim of the player.
The game is limited by the rules and only strategies make it work.
In this sense the game is as much in the mind as much as the mind is in the game.

Through black and white turns, the pieces end into a checkmate - a unique configuration of terminal consequence. The winning strategy enjoys its 15 minutes of fame while yet another game proves yet another winner.

War is always about with and without.
Power is a bunch of sensational baubles crammed into an empty hole that could not be filled creatively.
Victory in some senses is a desperate attempt to humor insecurity.
The need to prove is at times only a sorry desire to draw juvenile attention.
This world is arrested by the overgrown children who cannot stop clasping and clinging to some temporally insignificant medals hanging over lonely pedestals standing in phallic upright glory in the middle of a deserted stadium.

It is so obviously fake!

A special tramp walked from place to place, getting rid of the trash that polluted his world.
While we watch through the glass the thunder and the storms he lived in the rains watching our homes.
Something about his soul seemed perfectly in place.
Beyond his decadence was concealed an honest reality.
He represented the soul of humanity's lost face.

If an alien observer were to stumble upon this rare representative of the human species, the extraterrestrial intelligence would most certainly be amazed at the evolvability and harmony that danced within the enlightened tramp.

It would be precious, I imagine, from the most unearthly points of view.


Meanwhile. the wizards behind the curtain play the real games.
Their minds are molded by the context that they create.
These geniuses are mad men who are born too soon and their silence is a word that speaks without sounds

Beyond the veils lay lesser mortals scurrying about in precious perplexity, chasing tacit lines within imaginary boundaries they follow the false kings.
Ambiguously serving a certain queen who pulls apathetically upon their strings.

I sit with the sages who close eyes beneath the tree and watch silently the sun setting over the seas.
In every breath and every thought, pulsates the rhythms of their universe.

Vibrating with indispensable precision, they comprehend the situation.

There is an art in this universe that can only be expressed but never be perceived.
There is a truth about existence that can only be experienced and never be deceived.

The flowing river carries passengers from heaven to hell.
Some are in search of an escape, while others are escaping from some search.
I stand with those who are there simply because of the flow, neither tied to the river, nor enchanted by the shore.