Flood Gates Opened and the Sacrifice was Raised.
A few weeks ago, I stood face to face with the harbinger of success. The world applauded as money fell through the roof. The cash landed too high for the proletariat to reach and, yet, a fountain to swim in for those who have never known the struggles of the middle class.
Scanning through the room, I saw the desperate faces of those thirsting for the higher echelons of society. Blood rushed through the mass’s veins, hoping for the overflow of the downpour. Tongues out, ready to get the slightest taste of the rain.
Arms wide open, a sacrilege was on the brink. A plea rang through the air, and everyone wailed following suit. Here I am. Take me. I give you my all. Grace me with your prosperity. The desperation filled the room.
Tables accommodating the higher echelons of life sat unbothered. Their life and chatter dulled out the smell of blood, sweat, and tears from the crowd around them. Somehow untouched by the cries, they carried on—chins held high.
Champagne and fifteen-year-old whiskey were passed around. The alcohol was shared with the least of us, making us feel as if we were welcome. One with all of the festivities.
A mother who refused to stand center to the festivities made her rounds through the tables of all the desperate witnesses, a pretense for unity.
The sacrifice took place. A door opened, letting the chosen one in.
A family stood at the center of this rare event. They have broken the curse. It was sacrilegious, the outcry of the crowd filled the air. This was the first in decades to grace the commoner, a disgrace to the eyes of the few but a beam of hope to the lowly.
The planets aligned.
On this rare occasion, social mobility was as plain as black and white. The family no longer dabbled in the world of the working class. By chance, the years of building connections, and serving at the feet of those who owned the world paid off. They were now one of them by right.
Miracles are real and alive—pulsing through the veins of each desperate onlooker, pounding through the hearts of each celebrant, pouring through the tears of each wishful thinker.
Good fortune and success rolled out of the tongues of each one. Best wishes loomed in the air The center stage felt like it was swelling to the brim, ready to explode.
The Meaning and Cost of Success
Happy to witness this rare occasion, a deep-seated depression crept into my soul.
The lights, the flowers, and the champagne were more than enough to mistify onlookers. Adding the wine into the mix, we were inebriated enough to enjoy the occasion. And yet, in the haze of the little alcohol, I saw the mist of the evening settle into a dark film. A fog floated above the joys and laughter of the crowd, adding a sinister undertone to the bright event.
Suddenly, a grey and heavy cold seeped into my bones, a darkness like the calls of the River Styx. As my eyes adjusted, Charon stood before me, cloaked in black, reaching out. His bony hand is eye level now—an invitation as enticing as the celebration.
A golden drachma glinted in his hand. I finally understood. A choice was mine to make. I can follow him into the dark or take the money and stay.
Nothing more. There was no in-between. His grin guaranteed that I would see him again no matter what I chose. My old friend. This was not our first encounter.
The carrier of death helped me remain sober in that moment despite the alcohol in my blood and the loud cheers. This choice was so forthcoming of what happens next, so surreal, and his instructions crystal.
“One day, we will all befall,” he growled into the deepest part of my skull. One day, we will all take his hand as he steadies us onto his ferry.
So, what is success? What is there to celebrate in this hall? What is it to raise our voice, and to yearn in earnest over this celebration? What is it to be on the wave of upward social mobility? To have everything you want and more?
Success.
According to Oxford Languages, success means “the accomplishment of an aim or purpose.”
An Aim or a Purpose.
The words rang in my ear, the praise a banging cymbal joining the cries of desperation.
The aim to what? The purpose of what? Charon would have pointed his bony fingers to the temples of Tyche, the goddess of chance and fortune. To pray to the two-faced goddess who held both fortune and destruction in her hands.
Ultimately, success was a gamble—a shiny drachma glinting in Chaon’s hand, a treasure tied with the promise of his return.
I may not want the calls of this crowd I was drowning in. But I want to live out a purpose, one where I will welcome dear Charon back with open arms.
‘Til we meet again!
Busyzi 