A wooden Moksha.

Survival is a discipline.

An exquisitely stale art form, seldom running in the veins and vines of the modern world. Intertwined with the genetics of life and fed through a series of obstacles, we remain standing. The lucky ones softly strolling ‘round the globe are the products of judgment and forethought –pawns in the regiment of improbability. They represent the betrayal of the natural continuum, an embrace of the moksha, the cycle of rebirth.

A wooden cadet stands on guard. Chin up, chest rolled over and colon pulsing in hopes of letting the excrement loose. Inferior, yet free, the pawn opens the board to conflict. An act of sacrifice, the wooden soldier hopes to progress into the paramount stages of the game – such a hearty aspiration for an inferior party. An allied bishop spawns to E3 with much resemblance to a damsel in distress and takes a final bow. Her epidermis is slain and skinned away, yet the cadet stands tall in the shadow of a departed chief – another step won’t hurt.

Pull through, hold out, continue, and remain the cunning cardboard piece that you are. Oil up, defy the senses and become the unprecedented blind spot that lashes into positions of power. Light up, inhale, and smoke another to ease the mind before falling into a suicidal trance. That is the name of the game, deception at the core.

With a heavy heart, the knight leaps overhead and lands on C3. The wielder of the board delays, taking a moment to conjure a course of A-ction and a plan to B-etray the wooden rascals. Suddenly, the egocentric player advances the pawn into the battlefield, where the stench of stale blood permeates the wooden squares.

Agonizing wounds blister into existence. Bang Bang! – the army of pawns topples over. A wetness spills overhead the unscathed cadet, an orange pool forming beneath the feet. Beer foams at the wielder’s mouth – minor chuckles erupt into a second wave of thoroughly tainted liquid bullets and tobacco spit. The petrified soldier moves once more, pushing over the bodies of deceased comrades.

A soft-spoken king is heard reciting prayers, a mantra of Amens. The pawn stands facing the white bishop, as a radiant loathing spreads through the inert pieces: Jesus pinned to the Cross. The following sequence clears the way for the underqualified cadet. A trickle of blood lashes over the board – layers of stain spew from the defeated opponent. The aggressor wears a crown, an alluring liquidator of feline persistence. A hand shelves itself on the shoulder of the pawn. The queen nods and edges the mouth of a handheld revolver into the chest of a dying tower. The deepest of breaths grows shallow.

Three more steps.

At last, the pawn matches to the edge of the tainted cliff. “Pawn to a queen,” was the taboo achievement of the wooden board. Steadily, the cocoon hatches into a fatigued image of the devil, metamorphosizing into a landmark of the final row. Sharp, uncanny, and abnormal, the pawn pirouettes into thin air and rings around the ratchet Rosy.

 

29/2/24

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