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anno_salutis
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"The field is green, and the combine force of the rich tourists and passionate commoners
of the home country throng.
Goal One: the first loss in life is not even as painful, though it is painful,
as it is disorienting. You are unsure what to make of it -
how are you to know that this is not the exception but the rule.
It simply has not been the case until now.
Goal Two: goal two is when the sun starts to blind your eyes,
and friendly faces begin to shift into something uncomfortable. The thought of erasure is terrifying, though it begins to become more real, and in that sense, as opposed to the endless avenues imagined in hope and in terror, is possibly comforting.
Goal Three: by goal three, you are disengaged. The roar of motion is now a blur,
and the players cannot comprehend the world.
Goals 4-6 are nothing to do with you, they happen to you passively. You are a cricket in the maw of a snake.
It is only when you score your one goal, your feeble attempt at rebellion, that the finality hits you. That is of course when Goal 7 arrives, and you are hit with the finality of it.
Your eyes start to show the dawning of the possibility that everything you thought of yourself
and your countrymen were deceptions, the confluence of ephemeral circumstance.
But beneath it is a deeper truth, a truth more terrifying, and it will only hit you in the putrid steam of the shower, in the streets filled with wan and lost faces.
There is something to the myths of your forefathers. You are simply undeserving of it.
You, the one game allotted to you now played and lost, will continue to wander in pathetic circles like ants who have entirely lost the scent of all of life, as you did for 90 minutes on the pitch that was to be your canvas.
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