A friend of mine lent me a book to read while on the train to see my brother. She wanted to create a long chain of people reading and annotating her favorite book, sharing knowledge and inspiring each other; As the second recipient, I was excited. I got through a good chunk on the way there, absorbing the author's rhythmic dichotomies--finite and infinite games, serious and joyous players, theatrical and dramatic play, control and vulnerability--before the trepidation overtook me. That night my brother was perfectly cordial, playful, happy. But through every action he seemed to be avoiding genuine connection as efficiently as possible. I snapped. (For the sake of clarity, I will be Achilles, and my brother, the tortoise.)

Achilles: "I've been reading a book, about seeing the world as an infinite game."
Tortoise: "How do you win?"
Achilles: "By continuing play. Winning is a state of being, not a goal. You seek surprise, the change that creates life."
Tortoise: "People are inherently lazy; without goals, without incentives, no one would do anything. I refuse to live a mediocre life."
Achilles: "...Whoever must play, cannot play."
Tortoise: "Life is not a game. These are serious matters."

And in that moment I realized my brother is completely--and proudly--committed to being a finite player. I respect his decisions--he will undoubtedly be more productive and 'successful' than I ever will be--but his ability to be satisfied with his life is almost paradoxical to me. How can you be appreciative and joyful when your purpose will always be just out of reach? How can you change and grow, flourish and thrive, when you mythologize your patterns, when you systematically formulate every decision to maximize your success? What is the point of more success in this case when it's pursuit necessitates losing sight of the future, and even sometimes the present?

"It is the genius that knows that the past is most definitely past, and therefore not forever sealed but forever open to creative reinterpretation."

The allure of falling into familiar patterns in an attempt to resolve past failures--especially when trauma is involved--is incredibly strong. My past beliefs, my pain, can often feel like obligations, gambler's fallacy on a much larger scale; I've created a sense of identity tied to these patterns. Where do you draw the line of yourself? This book rejects the notion of past as identity, not by attempting to identify a threshold of baggage to forsake, but by

"To enter a culture is not to do what the others do, but to do whatever one does with the others...Each new speaker of its language both learns the language and alters it."

My brother loves to correct my grammar, pointing to the dictionary assertively. Language is a tool, whose sole purpose is communication, I say. It's beautiful, our ability to craft What is the point of more success in this case when it's pursuit demonizes others, condemns them for their individuality?

"The poet joyously suffers the unlike, reduces nothing, explains nothing possesses nothing."

It is difficult, to work through my false beliefs, my vestigial habits, my incongruous mantras. It is difficult, to accept, to relish the diversity of culture, in fact, it is inherently uncomfortable. Choosing to be uncomfortable is no small feat.

"...The way does not belong to things seen, nor to things unseen. It does not belong to things known, nor to things unknown. Do not seek it, study it, or name it. To find yourself on it, open yourself wide as the sky."

Wake up tomorrow and choose to be the genius of yourself.