Is it really just a game?

As I watched the oiled up rods spin, flicking balls and breaking hearts, I couldn't help but think: "What are we except little lifeless, plastic men, spinning on sticks?"

Unable to move our hands away from our sides. What about balancing? We have no need to balance ourselves. These metal rods have become one with us, keeping us straight, but also dictating every move we make. And who has their sweaty hands on the rubber grips? What monster is controlling us?

But one must ask...   Is it better to live on a pole in ignorance, or fully aware of the forces controlling and manipulating your every move?

I don't know if I'm ready to answer these questions. All I know how to do is get that little white, round piece of hard plastic in to the carved out hole in front of me. That little goal that I'll never reach, and I'll never touch. I just do my job of getting the ball there. Is there any other option? Will I ever be that ball, rolling so gracefully past the lone defender in to the pit I've never touched with my own hands...

I'll never know. I'm just a man on a pole.