Life, every single sphere of it, is a contest, a competition. Rivalry exists, in nature, or is made, by humanity.
Outwardly, it serves as entertainment; inwardly, as dogged determination to be recognised, to survive, to overcome.
A struggle with witnesses or without. An audience of few or an audience of many. Friends, family, colleagues. A public that's paid. To watch silently or shout encouraging words, utter consoling sounds.
Breaths are held at the spectacle. Emotions that threaten to rise to the surface are fought against. There are gasps, there are flutters. There are sighs. There are worried as well as jubilant expressions. Childish delight is there too as is irritation, frustration and anger.
The speaker speaks, the listener listens, waits his turn. The lips move, the ears hear.
The writer writes, the reader reads and critiques – to himself and to others – the words set down on the page. One more concerned with language, the other with style.
The actor goes through too many emotions, in and out of character. They constantly play off and against each other, always in role or rehearsing a part.
The athlete uses all his strength, all his skill to lift a four-hundred-pound weight; the athlete, next in line, dusts his hands with chalk, and with his eyes measures up his adversary.
Life is full of vaudevillians.
They are there too among the workers: the factory, shop, office and business people.
And also among the philosophers; and undoubtedly amongst the politicians and Heads of State.
Contest of politics, of debate, of opinion and thought – of what you say and how you say it, as well as the tone you deliver it in. Stare down and yell over the competition; or be moderate and rational but witty. Flash insincere smiles to the audience and to the cameras.
Contest of personalities, contest of celebrity - those aspiring to such heights and those trying to keep their profiles visible. Their name in lights. Their person instantly recognisable. And of all types, too.
Thespians, of film and TV. Politicians, from every party.
Sports men and women, of all sorts. Writers, of all genres. Philosophers, of all schools.
Members of the public, from all walks of life.
There is no science. Some people just want fame, super-stardom or lesser degrees of it. Some want that and power too.
One contest is like another: conquered sport, conquer writing; conquered writing, conquer film; conquered films, conquer politics. Lead: be an spokesperson, be an activist.
And win. Every time. That apprenticeship, that contract, that talent show. Outbid, outrun everyone else. Run rings around them.
Even a loss is a win, if other contests are won. If a balance can be struck between work and life, between stress and calm. Between wealth and poverty.
Conquer yourself...
No, that can't be done.
But what kind of contests are these that can only be lost or managed?
The internal, which exist between head and heart, between mind and stomach. Between cells and organs. Between skin and bones; hair and nails. And between the camps of the brain itself.
Conflicts arising between, as well as in, chambers. Though the cause of this infighting is not, as mythology might tell us, a woman, but a state of being. An emotion felt. An ache, a pain. Looking for release or dissolution. Distraction, even.
Where distraction triumphs, the contest, the conflict continues, until a deeper hurt, a larger wound, a heavier blow comes about. Destruction follows.
The mind, then, is friend and foe. Comrade and opponent.
Picture credit: Warrior, 1982, Salvador Dali (source: WikiArt)
This post was penned in 2019.
