Prose,  Written literature | Author's writings

The roulette

I think it is pointless to think about the value of life. Life or people, what’s the real test? Pull the trigger or reshoot life? A shot heard, the words echo in your head louder than your favorite playlist song. Worthless people discuss worthless things, placing a price on them by putting them into the same box with everything they promised they would never become. What is the value of a living creature? What happens when we slip and fall into a state of nirvana? We play roulette with people, throw them on a so-called wheel and let them spin, in luck or misfortune. From the black souls runs the red lottery. Will the prize be worth it, or will the man remain miserable? Labeled by numbers, we spin in front of everyone. We look the same, numbered and identical, in shape and form. Where you stop, that’s where you disappear. You take or give everything. And what is life if it’s not roulette? You put everything on the table, so what happens, happens. We spin at the same pace, seeking wealth and love. Life or people, what’s the real problem? Several stairs or steps? You climb – you fall, you try again – you give up. Where goals are simple, principles are superfluous. We are not matching each other. Are we not adapting to life, or is life not according to us? We’re slow, and it goes fast. We’re quick, life stops us, and pushes us off track. And there is the end. Life as roulette, one is correct, the other is blank, a game of bargaining. What is morality to immoral people? What is a human being? Quiet conversations that speak a lot, silence in the mind that rules? Or is it a life, where eyes speak, and words only see? That is a strange game with rules unknown. There’s little difference between the one who holds the cards and the ones who are holding by someone else. They are separated by soap to wash the traces of handshake and extend their hand where the hand is not welcome. I think it is pointless to think about the value of life. What is value if it isn’t a trace of a fight? Burning in the fire to make the mark disappear, but a new one appears. The number is lost, but the pain remains. Sometimes an echo is scarier than a shot, right? Sometimes the view is scarier than defeat. Sometimes, roulette is just a game, and sometimes a rolling dice is a final decision, a gambling game with people. The chances are on the bet, all the money, gambled. People are selling themselves for just one round. And one more, another one, but this roulette is a lot different, we all play this roulette, and from time to time, we get kicked out. People spin in circles as they belong to the circus, chasing money like fish chasing bait, they don’t even realize that the years pass, time goes by. We become alone with the wallet in our hands, alone on the wheel of fortune with a forged damn banknote. With no identity, and that’s where we fall, once and for all. Staying down, we become another dice in a row, waiting to be thrown, to bring good luck, or sadness. They roll us in their dirty hands, throw us on the table, waiting from us feeling of happiness, gain, pride. Hungry eyes follow us, snapping their fingers nervously, one more fist hitting the table when we don’t live up to their expectations. We are not significant, but in reality, we’re most valuable to them. Objects or means? The irony, dense and somewhat funny. We have no right to speak, we have nothing, we don’t exist, we spin steadily, thrown in and stranded, but invisible. We have fallen into our trap, conscious, and eager. We became part of the roulette, a part of a game without end, experiencing the same scenes, every moment, but with other players.

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