We have no choice but to play the hands we're dealt. Sure, there are rules by which the universe runs, but at its heart a lot of life is just chance, indifference—chaos unending. But, there's one thing that is always consistent: you're always there, watching me.
Whether I fail or succeed, you're there, looking at me, weighing my worth as a human being. That's right, I see you giving me that look: that knowing look, that condescending look, that judging look. Or is that a look of pity—or of disappointment?
Sometimes it's just not in the cards. There's only so much I can do with what I've been given. Sometimes the fault is mine—whether through inattention to detail or through lack of patience, or whatever it is, I know I'll find myself stuck. I'll give up. I'll fail. I'll move on. But no matter the case, I know that in between those moments—those epic moments of triumph or failure—you're always there, judging me with your eyes—your patient, knowing eyes, and your inscrutable little smile, waiting, knowing that whatever the current outcome, I'll be back again.
Even in my moments of success you're watching from behind those tilted eyes—with that look that says, "Yeah, you did OK this time, but you and I both know that won't last." And every time I fail, you're there with that stare that seems to see right through my exterior self—the self that the rest of the world sees—and down to the very depths of the soul I don't even have.
What else could it mean, that look? What are you wordlessly saying to me? Are you laughing at me from behind that smile? What do you see?
You give me that cold, hard stare, that measuring moment in your eyes that pierces right to the core of my being—that fruity core where lie the seeds of my own self; seeds of ruin and destruction that you could pluck out with a glance and show to me. But you don't do that, no. You don't let me see them. Instead, you continue on with this pretense: the innocent smile, the barest whisper of delusion that you somehow don't see my darkest secrets and fears and that your smile is only so much flirtatious innocence rather than the mocking of my pain that we both secretly know it is—but I don't dare speak it out loud, not even to myself.
And so I fail at my task once more … I pick it up and try again. And there you are again—saying nothing—just watching—and judging me with your eyes.
You are always and ever there, waiting to play your hand. Aren't you, little cartoon woman in the Solitaire game on my iPhone?