The Relationship Game

The human race is deplorably superficial. We cling onto stereotype ideals and insist that aesthetics are but a facade that is pleasing to the eye; that what we search for in life is not beauty that withers in time, like the falling leaves on an autumn day, but rather, beauty that is ethereal and eternal. We struggle to overcome our primal instincts with archetypal perceptions of love and often we lose. Perhaps I am a pessimist. You may argue that I am ignoring millions of blooming relationships built on stalks with cellular substance and devoid of superficiality. But pessimism is a perspective that is fostered by disappointment. I have good reason to take such a stance.

The relationship game is not a sport that I partake in currently. I am in indefinite hiatus for reasons I shall not disclose. In its stead, I spectate. I sneak into arenas through back doors: MSN, Facebook and house parties. My most recent attendance was heartbreaking. As I cheered for my team, I witnessed every attempt at goal dismally missing the target. It was torture. I glanced in askance at the opposing supporters; their faces contorted in disgust at such a poor display of skill. In the background are echoes of the coach, whose boisterous instructions fell on deaf ears. I dug my head into the depths of my palm in the hope that the guilt of accidentally revealing my teams strategy (or rather, strategem) to the opposing team in the midst of my rambunctious cheers, would wither away like the momentary image of an afflicted reality as I closed my eyes. The night wore on in similar fashion and as the game ended in despair - a goalless affair - I left with a sense of anguish.

The inevitable criticism of the days play arrived with perfect alacrity. There is nothing elusive about the words of a critique; they fire literary knives that leave hidden wounds. Our team was degraded to the level of dogs, desiring the image of a bone etched into the blue sky by floating clouds. Our ambition was too great; we were destined to fall short in a match where the disparity was strikingly 'overt'. I pondered over these musings, standing in front of a misty bathroom mirror. As I began to succumb to the belief of our inferiority, my dim reflection seemed to darken and fade further into oblivion. A trickling droplet of water split the reflected enigma in two, tracing a path that ran down its chest. I washed my face with a violent furry, the droplets of water like shards of broken glass.

"...pessimism is a perspective that is fostered by disappointment."

I wished that I could clarify the misconceptions that these critics possessed. That lack of skill was no indication of lack of heart. That lack of skill did not mean lack of effort. That lack of skill is severed from individual persona. That we are not all blessed with natural talent, abilities and attributes. I could not help but believe that our shortcomings stemmed from the follies of first impressions - the lovechild of superficiality. It seems that Austen's Pride and Prejudice remains relevant in our modern context.

Since that game, I have hungered for a rematch to prove that our team has the ability to be worthy opponents, or perhaps it is for more selfish reasons. Fuck that. I think I'll go back to ignoring the undertones present in these observations, sit back and watch the bullshit unfold. It was less painful that way and certainly less taxing on the brain. Fuck you 2u English for making me analyse shit.