The Finishing Line.
Would you be able to sit back in your chair as our world went up in flames and find content in the things that you did up to this final point, or would this be the moment where you realized that something just had to change?
And if there were changes to be made, why did they seem to matter at this point?
Why do we choose to shift alignments and rebel? Why do we return to the ones that seemed to matter the most in hindsight, or turn against the ones that never did to begin with?
Because in the end? The only thing we know that’s there is a finishing line.
It might be pearly gates that lead you into serenity, or an overweight, smelly demon that’s eager to violently penetrate you – or something far more abstract than that – but it’s all nothing but a finishing line to this game that we all play.
Nobody wants to share the finishing line –
You know why?
Because nobody knows what’s after the finishing line – and if there’s a chance that there’s another existence where paths may be shared by those ultimately unwelcomed, there’s value in knowing who you may have to share that existence with.
In this case, I’m potentially sharing the finishing line with Banzan, the indestructible mountain. The know-it-all resident peacekeeper, here to spread enlightenment to our world, turned arms dealer by employing a poor kid as goddamn weapon.
That’s right folks, he’s the enlightened turncoat – with a trigger to the atomic bomb right underneath his belly.
And yes, I know that I turned my brother’s head into fancy fingerpaints – but HE was the turncoat because HE DIDN’T KNOW HOW TO PLAY ALONG. So… I’m to expect that a turncoat demi-God is going to play by the rules? Not a wellspring’s chance.
Therefore, he will not share the finishing line with me. I don’t care what he says, either.
And then there’s sweet little Renault.
A little late on the existential knee jerk reaction there, if you ask me. From experience, it’s ideal to develop your own individual platform and rid yourself of the anchors. There’s just so many of them out there these days, and you just can’t trust a single one of them.
But then judgment comes into play – which you lack terribly.
You’re the guy that just glided his way across the track – neatly arranged beside your dear brotherhood – until you saw the finishing line – and that’s when you decided it was time to play hero? That’s when you start taking flight – right down the final stretch?
Penalty on the GODDAMN FIELD.
You made changes that indirectly affect me, little boy. Don’t you understand that a few of those brothers of yours might make it to the finishing line too? And then what happens? Right back to this nonsense again?
I’ve had enough of it.
When I’m back in my Toybox, you’ll both be nothing more than two extra buckets of paint – just in case I run out.
This is my game.
This is my finishing line.