Ah, “identity politics” or:
Let’s exchange one rigged game for another!
Except, this is real life, not a game.
Not every white knight moves in an L formation, where only the queen can make a W and the pawns take one step forward looking for an angle to exploit, tiptoeing between black and white while the king pussyfoots between tentative dimensions and we root for the winning team.
Not every castle is a rook lined up neatly in a row, and not every bishop has you cornered.
As if the rules matter anyway, when a computer can beat you every time? In terms of social engineering and scripted pattern recognition any way…because that’s what rules are—formulaic calculations, simplistic, a competition of one team’s wits against another’s, based upon generic limitations. A certain cultivated skill set, if you will.
Poker face me this way or that, but I won’t play dumb about your potential to bluff and deceive me and manipulate the game. It’s a feature, not a bug; at least in the eyes of a player.
I’m sorry, did switching games confuse you?
Try switching narratives—empires rising and falling, eras transforming. What makes you so sure your knowledge of one game, one match, one tournament, will help you win another once the rules shift (like the tides) and crumble out from under you (like a pile of old antiquated ruins)?
Point being, rules do matter, but humanity evolves beyond all law except nature’s law. We exist in near infinite combinations from complex and diverse lineages, each of which had their own story in history. Each of us with our own moment in time… preceded by all those before it, followed by all those to come.
Your “rules” won’t describe sh!t f#ck @ll about a person, except their theoretical limitations and hypothetical privileges (and hint: it’s not plotted on a checkerboard).
You think you know how I should move, who I should be, or what I should and shouldn’t think? And I’m sure you’d welcome me to make the same assumptions about you, little asset?
The way you wrap your body up in the strings of puppetmasters, perhaps I could… But something tells me you still have a deeper story buried in there somewhere, a soul purpose beyond the games you play.
Is it alright for You to call me whatever You like, label me with any label, but not okay for me to do the same to you? Those are the rules? A narcissist loves a rigged game—but only in their favor—and a sociopath craves the power in his or her or their design. These are tools of the trade for social engineers. Oh, I don’t just mean rigged games and a lust for power, I mean the narcissists and sociopaths too, the useful idiots who call themselves players in the game. Tools.
But don’t hate the player.
The irony of a dictator is that (he or she or) they are simply somebody who… dictates.
And the people listen, in deed, or at least… until they don’t. You, who control our language in hopes of controlling our minds. You who play chess because you love the rules, especially when you can bend and break and cheat them in your favor.
You who play team sports because without constant affirmation you would forget who you are… who you’re supposed to be?
You, who fears every person that might spoil your plot because deep down you know the substance of your character is completely wrapped up in a script.
…the anticipation and suspension of disbelief as it unfolds…
You, who love a witch hunt, so long as you can be the one pointing the finger, and not the one pointed at—
What’s your diction and dialect?
Would you like to play a new game of follow the leader, if Simon Says it’s alright?