Some ways one can mend, some shouldn’t be mended.
Not for the first time I have to conclude that I am one of the least competitive people who have ever walked this earth. Everyone appears to enter contests – running, writing, cooking, best dress, biggest fish … you name it, whatever. People will compete, measuring themselves against each other: Gold, silver, bronze. First, second, third. I don’t get it. I so don’t get that I sometimes wonder whether I am looking from the outside in.
Slave to my tendency to wish to get to the bottom (and I mean scraping the barrel) of everything I recently asked myself whether I am just a bloody coward. Whether my refusal to enter any competition, in whatever sphere of life, just means that I’d hate to lose. That in truth, cruel light of day, I am SO competitive that entering a competition gives me the jitters because I can’t face coming second. Yes, enter pause for thought. Go into your heart. Dig. Assess soil. Dig some more. Remove smoke screen.
Fact is I am not competitive. Which is not a virtue but a curse. I don’t give a damn. One can analyze the shit out of it, look at it from all sides like a Rubik cube – fact is, competitions don’t mean anything to me. When I couldn’t avoid being entered into something and I won – it meant nothing to me. Nothing. I look at other people and their joy in the face of ‘success’ in wonderment. Someone once put forward that I – best case scenario – so rest in myself or – worst case scenario – have such arrogance that I don’t need the world’s approval. It is true. I am my one and only judge. Though will take the jury of those dear to me into account before condemning myself to a life of hard labour to condone my sin of just skipping along.