#100: If You Don't Like Running, Don't Enter Races (Winning Vs The Game)

Grab Your Weapons, Load Your Guns,
Prepare To Meet The Raging Huns.
Hide Your Hoard In Garrisons,
And March Yourself To War.
Stand There Midst The Simpletons,
Add Your Losings And Your Wons,
And Find That All The Harder Runs
Don't Pay You Any More.
So Now You Wonder, If The Fun's
All Been Lost, Or Un-Begun,
Since, Even If You Take Home Tons,
Of Booty-Loot, Galore,
You Learn That Thieves And Whores And Nuns
Will Make Their Own Comparisons,
Regarding Gold And Galleons,
But Never Grasp That Number One's
The Point They're Fighting For.

I remember once, when all the debris
that pummeled us in flight,
was a splatter of weapons and battle gear,
and all the stuff you might . . .

assume you'd need when headed off
to start some kind of war.
We figured we'd be facing some
tough and terrible score.

Our landing then reminded me
of all the different rules
we'd seen within the State of Games,
with all their different tools.

Of course, this time the difference was
that rackets, balls and bats,
were all replaced with tools of war . . .
canons, bombs and gats.

And, barely, we got up and out,
when some weird holes began
appearing through our arms and legs,
and through the Philo-Van.

Truthfully, they looked to be
the holes that bullets make . . .
and several minutes passed before
we thought they might be fake.

At first we were a little shocked
to find we felt no twinge,
but when we turned to start to run,
a new hole would impinge.

But now, it was a slashing, like
a sword had crossed my chest . . .
like scimitars we never saw,
and razor-sharp, I'd guess.

Suffice it now, to say that we
endured all kinds of wounds,
but all of them just disappeared,
like wind can heal the dunes.

They sealed so fast, and without pain,
again I thought to thank,
the nature of this Level 2,
physically, quite blank.

We walked out on our grassy knoll
and peered down on a war,
defined by weapons, yes, but then,
with no one keeping score.

Men with knives fought men with knives,
and sabers matched with swords.
There were chemical weapons and nuclear bombs,
and guys with nails through boards.

Per usual, we didn't question much,
the seeming craziness
of people fighting hand to hand
beside atomic blasts.

Each time a fighter took a fall,
or group of them wiped out,
they seemed to be, quite magically,
brought back to life, somehow.

Then, every so often, from far away,
some new warriors came,
and each one seemed to get the chance
to choose his own war game.

We watched one choose the bola.
He lasted for a while,
until a man with better wrists,
erased his head and smile.

We watched one fellow choose the knife,
and luckily he drew
the bowie as his weapon, and
of those there seemed so few.

His weapon and his strength kept him
wearing victory's vest,
at least until a pocket knife
was thrust into his chest.

And then a new guy, younger than
the others, took the field.
He chose a keyboard terminal as
the weapon he would wield.

He deftly punched computers codes
onto the tiny screen,
and all the well-armed muscle-heads
then started turning green.

The thing that started nagging us
was not the wars they staged,
since anyone could easily see
that none were really waged . . .

but, more, it was in winning them,
the winners then enjoyed
greater spoils, depending on
the weapons they employed.

The swordsman seemed to take home more
of battles accolades
than soldiers, for example, who
fought solely with knife blades.

But the swordsman's take was paltry when
compared to booty got
by the winner of a battle waged
with things that could be shot.

The bow and arrow winner took
a chest of jewels and gold,
while the winner with a rifle got
more than a chest can hold.

And no matter how much powder
that any gun might fire,
none of them could match the take
the bomber could inspire.

The fields below were choking with
a cloud of dust and smoke,
and now and then, stray shrapnel would
still penetrate our cloak.

But the battle fields were far enough,
that over all the noise,
we clearly heard that rumbling sound,
"Well, what about it, boys?"

"It has to do with 'Justice',"
I spoke up right away,
"and how unfair the wars we fight
can be to man, I'd say."

"Well, I'm not sure I get it, but
I understand Bo's point,"
Jo-Mima hoped agreement might
remove us from this joint.

"You're doubly wrong, it's sad to say,
though I can keep my calm,
in spite of all the effort you
exert to get it wrong.

The one thing you should know by now
is, Justice has no place
outside of Level 1, where man
would choose to bind and lace . . .

the strong ones and the weak ones,
the guilty and the fair . . .
as Darwin tried to show you,
the real world doesn't care.

There's a kind of Justice at Level 3,
and from there on, extends . . .
but that's a Justice that only He
fully comprehends.

So the Justice that you look for, Bo,
indignant righteousness,
you'll only find when you're back home,
and in your daily mess.

Or wait until the Judgment Day . . .
the only chance that you
can ask Him why a Justice State
is not on Level 2.

Your second error, I grant you, Bo,
may not be quite so grave,
in spite of all the lives that it
has managed to enslave.

The lesson of this State, you see,
is not concerned with war,
but all about the battles man
might choose to go there for.

The context is aggressive, yes,
and indicates bloodshed,
that's only for those creatures who
can only learn when bled.

It's more about one's winning, or
one's losing in a race . . .
the heats at which a man might choose,
his best attempts, to place.

You see, it's just as true in life
as any battlefield . . .
the wars for which you train and fight
decide the winner's yield.

The metaphor is useful, and
the soldier with a knife
selects a weapon, and a war,
much easier to fight . . .

while the bombers and computer-armed
must work and earn a skill . . .
their fight of choice brings greater spoils
than any sharpened steel.

And though their basic talents might
be every bit the same,
you see them all as different now
due solely to their game.

The warrior with the club and ax
gained upper body strength . . .
the computer soldier learned to solve
math problems of great length . . .

and yet, with few exceptions, we
might well have rearranged
their choices, way back years ago,
and found their lives exchanged."

"So, you're saying," Jo spoke up right then,
"wherever we end up
is a product of pure choosing, and
that choice is up to us."

"Well, that's the lesson of this State,
but it must be combined
with the lesson of another, where
you learn your heart and mind.

That's when you're supposed to know
your choice of race to run,
is based on both, the purse you seek,
and thread from which you're spun.

The tragedies I mostly see
will come in just two kinds . . .
those failing their potential . . .
and those that fail their minds.

But, he who's blind to limits of
his capability
is better off than he who fails
to try what he can be."

"So the lesson is," I broke in then,
"that first we have to learn
how strong and fast and smart we are
before we take our turn . . .

to pick the race we want to run . . .
how much we want to make,
and then, it's just a matter of
our counting up our take."

"It's not about your money," Bo,
the Voice was stern, but kind.
"It's not about a type of pay
that you can count and bind.

It sometimes shows its relevance in
some strange material pay,
but now we're talking more of things
you cannot count and weigh.

It's not for me to tell you, but,
as you return above,
do your best to e'er invest
in choices that you love . . .

for you will learn to fight the fight
of weapons that you choose,
and when the fight is wrong for you,
in winning, you can lose.

So, pick your battles carefully . . .
apply with all your soul,
and win or lose, all battles will
see you come out whole!"