There are two sides to every card. Its hidden demeanor, shaded by stripes, shapes, a clown, trees, a picture. The face that no one reads - The lines that cannot be broken.
There is no trick that allows one to see beyond the veiled perspective. There does not exist a single, special, maneuver that will allow you to decipher what the covered region means. It simply cannot be done.
Flip over; And it lies plain for all to see - Spade, Heart, Club, and Diamond. One, two, three, and four. It can no longer be hidden. Fending for itself, praying it deserves trump status.
In the brutal fight that is a card game, the winner is often sure of the hands he is mathematically projected to win. As if written by the sages in times gone by, the strict rules that bind such games have all but one difference: The strongest hand always wins the pot.
An astute player plays to his strong points. He gambles not in mad-faith nor does he leave his fate to chance. He believes in the strength of a reflection vulnerable in nature, while eschewing the chains of his innate desire to be protected against harm.
It boils down to that single moment on the table. The single swift movement where all is laid bare, plain, and open for the world to see. The end of the road. The truth of the cards. My truth, and our truth.
