Void

Losing is always tough; I should know, as I am the archetype of the un-win. My pedigree is finite, my refinement impressive – indeed, I am the eternal recipient of the good sportsmanship award. Susan Lucci and I would make an impressive pedigree.

Oddly, through my Sisyphean struggle, I can say I have found myself. I now know where I am, where I should be. What this feeling is. Though, perhaps feeling is the wrong word. Absence, ever so descriptive through what it omits rather than what it admits.

It truly is something else, that ever-poetic void where I rest. That blank space, where I lay, eternally transfixed whilst perpetually in motion. An ironic term for a Scrabble player; one small tool which, as a stepping stone to victory, represents a minute state of absentia, of being l’étranger amongst the cast of Survivor.

A great mystery, perhaps, yet I know myself. Like a dying television, a blurring image, slowly out of focus. Ever undefined. Ever the loser. Yet, always aiming to win.

‘til next tournament.