My buddy tells me
that when his portfolio net reached one hundred thousand dollars, ‘it was the nicest feeling.’ I can’t help but agree, though I’m worried I only get that way over games. His stories remind me of the grasshopper. He may commit too much too late, which leads us today, as he grumbles about the bags he holds. I do my best to follow the ant’s example. I mine my fertile soil for inspiration in my thoughts and works, plant, and reap the bountiful growth that bursts forth.
I followed almost twelve projects from last year, combed them with fine, scrutinizing teeth. They stood firm, responded soundly to questioning. The projects held promise. I felt like as though I carried out a quest. The hunt for untold riches and treasure beyond belief lie at the end of long texts and meeting places with suits and guest speakers.
Fair to say, I played with my disposable income, buying and selling whenever I saw plus signs, thinking myself a calculated investor. A year later, I’m not tired of the games, but play them with intention.
Strategy in tow, I’m either facing off in close combat against a friend or shooting at enemies to take an objective. I could even build a team of two or three, synchronizing their abilities to explore further. They told me to love my job and never work a day in my life again. Could I game everything I touch, make my own rules and be a winner in my own book?
