Ping-pong

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Sometimes I feel like there is a game of ping-pong going on my in head.

Two players on opposite sides of a table; each holding a paddle in their hand, passing a tiny ball, back and forth.

Ping, pong. Ping, pong.

They both look exactly the same, but they're dressed in different colors. One is dressed in lighter clothes, the other in darker ones.

Ping, pong. Ping, pong.

Sometimes they're passing the ball aggressively; others, very lightly. With grace. When they tense up, you can see that all through their body. Their faces, their hands, their legs.

Ping, pong. Ping, pong.

It looks like it's a conversation. Although no words are being said, the tone and tempo of the game resembles a face to face discussion.

Ping, pong. Ping, pong.

No one seems to be keeping score, yet everyone seems to know they're winning. I can feel their confidence from how they move, how they dance.

Ping, pong. Ping, pong.

The ball has "truth" written on it. It's a very fine ball; perfectly round, flawlessly structured. Sometimes, I wonder if it's even real. Too perfect for something I get to play with.

Ping, pong. Ping, pong.

It's a game that never ends. The players never get tired. But I do.

So I take the ball away. The players stop. I stop too, I cannot move. Something is preventing me.

The game has to continue. One strike at a time.

Ping, pong.


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