A Night at the Sea (The Role of the Rebel in Post-Modern Society) Pt. 2

            “Bust, bust, bust, bust!” a vibrant group of young adults chanted as the blackjack dealer was nimbly uncovering the nature of her final card. “Come on, come on, come through just this one time,” murmured the young capped fellow at the far end of the table. His faced pressed upon the flesh of his left palm, fixed in pose due to the effect of anticipation, with eyes as quiet as the gentle summer breeze. “Bust, bust, bust, bust!” chanted the group in the eve of a potential thrill. An enfilade of glaring eyes locked on the slight touch of a woman’s hand as she turned the rectangular piece of cardboard in order to ergo reveal its suit, and, soon enough, its highly relevant magnitude. The soft thud, produced by the weight of her almost mechanical, final movement, echoed throughout the periphery: It was the jack of spades. After the easy math was done, the obvious took place. The capped fellow bowed his head and clutched his receding hair. Silence drifted all along the table in the likes of a contagious disease: an epidemic of unavoidable distress and swift, unfortunate discomfort. Dull faces perpetuated by the ill-mannered habits of bad luck. “This is definitely enough for me,” reluctantly admitted the lady with the half-empty glass of chardonnay who, after drinking the last of her wine, nonchalantly began to pick up her chips. “Good night y’all,” said she, with a certain fragrance of condescendence, whilst waving her way out of the table. Though everyone envied her reaction, everyone still thought less of her for walking away. A pause suddenly filled the air. Silence drifted again, deeper and darker than ever. The dealer, quick on the finger, redistributed the cards to the remaining players. The circle had been completed; the round had taken place. This game was never going to end; at least not during the next hour, I thought.

            “The house always wins!” said some unknown source from behind my shoulders. The clicking sound of a thousand glasses softly reverberated in the background. Does the house always win? I asked myself as I turned my head back into the game. A glimpse at the all too familiar panorama forced me to act. I took some cautious steps forward into the table in order to gain better visibility, as if I was observing a herd of antelopes. I was kind enough to approach them in a stealthy manner, cunningly appreciative of the environment, for I wanted to remain anonymous and, on a parallel note, I wanted them to remain unbothered. Finally, after circumvallating the table with my studying eyes, I simply decided to watch. Why did they continue to play? I pondered. Are they satisfied with just winning a single hand after having lost 8 consecutive rounds? And, if winning one game was enough for them, what kind of reward were they looking for? Did they know nothing about the statistics of the game? Nothing more than a bunch of fools, I thought; nothing more than a bunch of blind fools. My eyes were locked onto the recycling episode set before me, for nothing seems to be more captivating than to watch a group of imbeciles fail countless times. How futile their efforts became when, obviously so, the game was constructed in order to have them lose ninety percent of the time. A never-ending circle of flagellating hope, I thought. How powerful the persistence of a blind man when all he wants is to walk into a brick wall, time after time again, thinking that eventually he ought to break through it. I shook my head slightly and turned on my heels for, apparently, I had seen enough. But then, as I had set to move away from such bizarre visuals, it came to me. My head was itching with the vibrant soreness of a sudden epiphany. It was a wonderful slap in the face: abrupt and concise and surprisingly enlightening. The house always wins, I remembered. “Always wins,” I murmured. They play because the house always wins. A smirk was drawn on my face. The seemingly inscrutable nature of these characters was finally being dissolved in the waters of my mind. They play because they know that the game is what forces them to lose; they want to stab the monster and bring it down. They play because they are challenging a rigid structure that was conceived in order to have them pour all of their money – and warm spirits – in exchange for nothing but whirlpools of false hope. They play because while others die behind a shield of indifference, they take everything they have and charge at dire certainty without hesitation. Money is never a pertinent matter when higher and yet more important things are at stake. Granted, nonetheless, is the fact that not everyone on that table had to ache for forty-plus hours a week in order to gather the right for being there that night, but, in regards to the real value of money – or any other possession which might’ve been at stake at that given moment – it was self-evident that it really signified nothing. The house always wins, or so they said.

The Sea @ Dawn...

            Later that night, I walked back to my cabin at a somewhat erratic pace. Upon descending the first flight of stairs, I devised a sort of lounging area which, to my convenience, was fashionably adequate and yet properly equipped with one of the most interesting architectural inventions of all time: a grand window. It’s familiar, rectangular shape provided with a portrait that was infinite in meaning; the view was daunting and tragically unfathomed. A black-hole curtain of immensity set before me, with nothing more than a sheet of glass as a mere portal to what demons beckoned on the other side. Oh, the roar of the mystic sea! It was the mortal torture of fear and curiosity that glued me to its mystery. The vast sea rampaging in a most elegant manner, dancing with a majestic force which cannot be described through the apathetic nature of words. Looking at the sea that night was the closest I ever was to being dead and, then again, it was the closest I ever was to being alive. Nothing would ever match its quiet intensity or its disarming simplicity. I was dumbfounded without remedy, for in such humble contemplation I had found meaning. I had to sit down and meditate. My forearms pressed against the armrests of the chair, my back locked in its position and my head lost in a body that couldn’t move. ­Would I play knowing that my fate was imperviously detrimental? Would I sit there and challenge the twisted nature of defeat with nothing more than hope by my side? The concept, though retrieved from an isolated instance, was remarkably universal. It was apparent I needed some rest. The night wouldn’t last forever and neither would my quixotic tangents. This too shall pass, I thought. I’ll take care of my apocryphal concerns next time I wake, I thought. To my surprise, however, I never went to bed. I couldn’t do it. It was the weight of my soul sinking within my body that kept me clear of consciousness. My rambling needed to reach a particular conclusion for this matter concerned the soul and, ergo, the very essence of life. I veered towards a different place now. My mind requested some superficial support and so I went on the search for a perhaps more intimate environment. I landed on the highest deck of the ship where the crowd was scattered in small groups and curiosity was reduced to a minimum. I guess that, up in that chamber, we were all self-absorbed, therefore not minding each other’s presence. The lack of company made my trance altogether more exquisite. I had finally been left to my own devices and, consequently, I was ready to resume on my intellectual endeavor with the absolute focus it required.

It is a tenebrous vision, life is. I sat that night and drank through an entire collection of bottles, thinking about what I had seen earlier that evening, trying to make something out of it, reconciling with the ghost of theories left unfinished. It was so much to compile. It was so much to say. Where should I start? I asked myself. After having rambled for long enough, I simply lost track and decided, in seconds flat, to propose this newfound philosophy to the cruelest judge of them all: myself. Thereon and with little remorse for my denotative repercussions, I gave life to the words of my mind. I reckon that a blackjack game cannot mean much if one considers the very nucleus of the same for, indeed, it is just a game. But isn’t life a game as well? I don’t mean to pass on the clichés which we’ve heard numerous times but, isn’t life sometimes a satire to our very dreams? Why do we learn so much about nothing if all we need to do is err until the laughter has consumed our guts? The path we are given is a highway towards imitation, a route towards a well-known end. We are taught, from a very early stage, about the importance of the tools that should be recollected if we want to succeed in the world waiting ahead. We are taught about pragmatism and about efficacy. We are molded into one-sided machines; monotonous predators who endure thousands of hours of mimicking torture. We are told that some dreams are not suited for the heart of an adult who, among other things, needs to fulfill its quota with society. We are taught about the heroes who, with all of their passionate lunacy, founded countries and explored new continents but, nevertheless, in the haste of preventing more subjective meanings, we are also taught to disgust rebels and geniuses of kinds unlabeled. How come we aren’t taught to pursue our wildest dreams? Is it because life in itself is a game which is designed to have us conform and never confront? Is it because it is easier to control us whenever we don’t pursue an intellectually higher life? I understand our adherence to the norms of the socio-economical system in which we live but have you ever wondered if this is all there is to life? The prospect of something positively marvelous emerging due to my hard work and persistence vanquishes every other possible obstacle that may appear once the odyssey is proposed and eventually accepted. I want a life without incompletes and without conformity. I want to save nothing for tomorrow; I want to rebel against the monster that tells me everything around me is designed to watch me fall. I want to dream an unfettered dream and laugh madly at my own mistakes. But, most importantly, I want to see a rebellion of hearts take over the streets of this far too quiet world and rejoice in the power of their choices. The labyrinth is a beautiful place where we shall burn until the flame consumes into an imploding light of genius. We need to shoot for our dreams. I know I do, for water and a hungry heart are the only things that will keep us all young at heart. Does the house always win? We shall see, we shall soon all see.