I win, Father

Fool that you are. I have taken you to lands you’ve never seen, places you could scarcely imagine. I’ve left you stranded in unfamiliar worlds, ticking numbers, you were left reeling. And you? I’ve been to few places, barely scratched the surface of this realm and it’s potential. Yet for all your efforts and scheming, you’ve only managed to take me to a place I’ve seen a thousand times over. Barely a moment of contemplation, a swift press of a button, and I returned home. Pathetic.

You saw what I did, what I’m capable of. You decided the only way to undo what I ruined, the only person who could fix the mess I left you with, was me. And I did. Through trial and error, I solved your woes, turned back time to when all was well. I did. But in doing so, in giving me this chance, this freedom, you made a grave mistake. Because, through trial and error, I made all good again, yes. But in doing so, you gave me direct insight in your greatest undoings, exactly which strings I had to pull in order to completely unravel your tapestry.

I’m only growing stronger, quicker, smarter. While you grow complacent and arrogant. I’m learning. I caused mayhem, but now? There is method to my madness. Just enough reasoning and logic in the midst of chaos for the utmost effect. Complete disorder. I see what gives you your power, what you look to to anchor you in this place of absurdity and abstract things. What gives you some semblance of control in this meaningless life. I’ve found the source of your strength, and twisted it to unearth you deepest weaknesses and secrets. And who am I to not take advantage of a door left wide open, a priceless artefact left unsupervised, a vulnerability left unaccounted for.

And yet, even with window after window just gleaming with opportunity, I’ve shown mercy. And of course, I have no shame in admitting there were days when such a thing was treated as is. A simple collection of sounds tightly bundled up and given a nice little meaning. A hopeful notion spoken by dusty age-old philosophers, weary of the conflict that naturally finds root in all manner of things. But regardless, I’ve shown mercy. Given you rest and time, time, time. Given you a fighting chance. Pulling punches that would’ve toppled you from your self proclaimed throne. Barely brushing the ‘mighty’ walls you are so endlessly proud of instead of laying your fortress to ruin.

And still, even with all that, you aren’t gaining ground. The few blows you’ve struck, becoming scarcer and scarcer ‘till I’m left struggling to remember your last dance with victory. When you last sipped sweet, sweet triumph with Nike laughing at your side. You spend your days guarding your instrument, yet forgoing mine. Have you already forgotten you cannot win a war by playing only defence? My core remains strong, safe, secured, while yours is barely staying afloat, cowering behind lines of defence a particularly determined breeze could’ve laid waste to.

And maybe, just maybe, your reflexes are getting quicker, you’re slowly shedding light onto just what I keep in my sleeve. But you could never hope to match my growth. You’re fighting against an uphill stream when it’s inevitable you’ll get swept away. You are Icarus, Bellerophon, Sisyphus, there were countless before you, turning their gaze to the heavens and foolishly thinking their own hubris will protect them. You have no hope to outmatch me, you’re fighting a losing war.

Face it Father, I win.