Nobody truly expects to win the lottery. Sure we play, living week in, week out playing ours and loved one’s birthdays, ages, lucky numbers – but deep down we know it’s pointless. That expectant hope that one day we’ll have made the right choice. Not only that, but one day, that glorious day, the Universe will cut us some slack and, for no good or fair reason at all, decide to align with us. It’s the hope we’ll suddenly be free, to be free to do what we want to do – to free ourselves of the monotony of the little boxes we’ve allowed ourselves to be cemented into. As if we’re just faking this life until we can burst forth as the more unfettered, soaring creature that we blindly believe we really are.
Hope, that one feeling that allows us to tolerate the now, it’s not usually pondered why it was there in Pandora’s box. After all the venality had gone why should such an aid be in the same package as all the things that make life unbearable? Quite simply because hope makes it all tolerable, it can’t go on forever this agony can it? Surely there is a glimmer on the horizon?
Whilst we’re looking to the future the now ebbs into the past, where it stays – dead. We can hope for change, but as we’re doing that we’re mortgaging our present for an out of focus future.
Still, you’ve got to play the game to buy out of the game – sure it helps to be the banker – if childhood play teaches you one thing it should be that the banker always wins, because the banker always cheats. But if you aren’t the banker you can dream you can cheat the odds and, if not beat the system, at least buy your way into a better one.