Never Turn Back, Ever…

Ever played sea chicken? It’s simple. And healthy, I’m told. But I never thought of it that way.

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The idea is to swim to the horizon. I told you it was simple. The idea is to pit yourself against anyone and everyone. The idea is not if but when it is the other person will give up or then again it could just be you.
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We use to play it every day, my best friend and I. To swim to the horizon knowing, that either one of us was going to give up. And for the longest time we tried beating each other not knowing that we were not competing against one another. Knowing only that each stroke towards the horizon was one we will have to make back. Knowing that there is only so much strength that spite and juvenile tendencies can compel us to muster; but all the while not caring, because ‘not losing’ has always been so much more important than ‘winning’.
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That was a long time ago. Now I’ve grown up. Or at least I’d like to think so. I’ve realized that sweat and sea water taste different and that the red seaweed is just so because my nose has been bleeding for the last 10 minutes. There is no sand tumbling up in my nostrils, no acrid stench of the open swear, only the damp perspiration engulfing me as I walk through the corridors of my college. Still seemingly unaware that I’m still swimming, still playing, still losing, at sea chicken.
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It starts the same. The dare, the challenge, the project or the assignment; the lectures on being better, stronger and faster than everyone else, ironically made to everyone, knowing that there can only be one winner and so many losers. I think we’re all losers at the end of the day.
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In the course of anyone’s college years the compulsion to seek out the best and beat them is alluring to the brightest and most ambitious of the lot but the motivation of the average has always been to retain their standing as those who don’t really buy into the “rat-race”, those who feel above it all, it’s a good strategy – “I don’t care if I lose because I don’t care to play”, very non-conformist, the irony again being that its probably become the largest group.
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We sweat alongside in claustrophobic libraries eyeing the competition, muttering… “I can’t lose to him!” The frantic pencils like wavy sea lines beckoning retribution to an uncommitted offence, just the thought that there are so many of them and only so much in us. The rules haven’t changed and we’re all still playing along.
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I didn’t like that feeling. So I changed the rules.
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Chicken is no longer about who comes first or last. Who blinks and swerves, blindingly crashes off his egalitarian perched high-horse on to humble mother earth, chocking up spew to avoid bitter tears. No it’s not like that anymore. I play to win and I play against the biggest. I play, against me.
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The purpose of the game shouldn’t ever be construed as the beating of the opponent but the actualization of self. Every stroke made out to sea is one you will have to make back, that is the burden. But where will we go to? What’s so great out there that you wish to break your back getting there? And if it’s really so great, why think about coming back?
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You fight, not your friend, brother or stranger but yourself. The limitations nature and your mind have drawn for you in your head. The idea is to win. Not against anyone else but yourself.
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“Got 70/100, I will do better.”
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“Only made to the top half of the class, I will do better.”
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“Didn’t make the internship, I will do better.”
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“Can’t paint like Van Gogh…hell! Even I’ve got limitations, guess I’ll just paint for fun.”
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So in the end everybody wins and nobody cares. And that’s just the way I like it.
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Wouldn’t you?

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I just remember, to swim hard whenever I play, but play for keeps and I don’t save anything for the journey back. What’s worth coming back to?