By Amy Dollery
WHERE you direct your eyes, is where you will end up. If you look across the court as you hit a tennis stroke, your ball will follow. If you stare straight ahead when walking on a skinny plank, even if there is a drop below, you will stay steady. But if you gaze up, if you focus on the stars and don’t let your eyes slip, the sky is the limit.
Fake it until you make it, learn how to play the game. That is what we were taught. Blow 50 quid, a 100 quid, until 1000 pounds is nothing to you. Don’t hesitate, don’t back down, learn how to be the alpha male you have always admired. And when the inevitable success comes, own it like you knew it always would. You saw it and it was yours for the taking. Teach yourself to feel like a god.
And if you ever need a pep up. If your belief ever wavers, there is always a white line, screaming your success. A sliver of silver to whisper your wonders. A shot in the bar will sort out your confidence, a coffee your tiredness, but a white line will sort out everything else. A god needs his nectar.
Seize every opportunity, they are all yours to take, nothing is won without risk. But never fail. Failure is not to be tolerated. You are a god and a god does not fail. Until you do.
Until you push that one step too far, take one punt too many and that spur of the moment act, starts to turn black and rotten in front of your eyes. Even your god-like touch does nothing to stop the decay. Your heart begins racing, and your eyelid begins to flicker, and instinctively your colleagues move away, they know failure is an infectious disease. And the white line who has always been your friend, flips its loyalty like a fair weather fan. The voice that used to affirm your greatness, begins to speak of your failure. To snigger about the weaknesses you always knew you had, to turn your brittle confidence, quickly and effortlessly into paranoia and fear.
But you don’t recognise it as that. You only recognise it as the truth you have been hiding all this time. You are taunted with the thought of how you will tell your mother, who has boasted about her high flying son and what you will tell your friends in the old social club, who laughed at you in your flash suit and a company car. The voice of the white line flippantly asks how you will cope when you find out you are nothing better than you ought to be.
And as you try and tell yourself it isn’t that bad, and cocoon yourself in denial, the world conspired against you, your boss rings to demand you attend a meeting with HR, the credit card bill arrives with debt more than you could ever imagine, and your dealer, who always gave you rope, suddenly stops taking your calls. The empire your godliness built begins to unravel and you find yourself, you think by accident, standing on the edge of a roof top car park, looking over at your offices, the whole of London shining like Olympia below. And you have to decide, to look up, or to look down.
© Amy Dollery 2016