Post by strat on Jul 9, 2023 22:04:34 GMT -5
Imagine, if you will, a beast within a dense forest. A creature not known for its roar or ostentatious display of power, yet commanding an unrivaled dominion. It’s not the loudest, nor the most visible. Rather, it moves with a quiet confidence, its actions speaking volumes more than any roar could.
This creature doesn't decimate its hunting ground, it doesn't eradicate its prey. It hunts with precision, with purpose, taking only what it needs and nothing more. It strikes a delicate balance, a dance between power and restraint, dominance and respect.
Even in its unobtrusive existence, the forest knows its presence. Every rustle of leaves, every whisper of the wind carries the message - here resides an entity of true power. Its dominance isn’t proven by a trail of destruction, but by the thriving life around it. It governs not through fear, but through an unspoken respect born from its judicious exercise of power.
This creature, it's an embodiment of an unassuming yet undeniable dominance. An echo of power that doesn’t need to reverberate through screams and roars, but resonates subtly through the quiet hum of a thriving, balanced ecosystem. That's the kind of rule, the kind of power, that commands the most profound respect and leaves the deepest impact.
Now, contrast this with another predator, one that roars loudly at every turn, casting its shadow like a dark pall over the forest. Its existence is a continual proclamation of dominance, an unceasing thunder that leaves no room for doubt of its presence.
Its approach to hunting is more a spectacle of power than a means of sustenance. It kills not just for survival, but for the demonstration of its strength, leaving a trail of unnecessary devastation in its wake. It relishes the fear in the eyes of its prey, feeds off the tremors its roars induce.
But such a demonstration of power comes at a cost. The forest lives in a perpetual state of fear, the creatures spend more time hiding than they do living. The harmonious cycle of life and death is disrupted, the balance skewed. And soon, the boisterous predator finds the forest eerily quiet, its prey scarce, and its roar echoing back from an empty wilderness.
In the end, its dominion, once thriving with life, turns into a desolate, haunting emptiness. The predator, once feared and powerful, is reduced to a pitiful figure of starvation, a victim of its own unchecked dominance. Its incessant roars fade into weak whimpers, a sobering reminder that true power doesn't lie in the loudness of one's roar, but in the wisdom of its use.
–
“I climbed the mountain to see the world, not so the world could see me.”
At this point it is almost a cliche since I say it so often.
My reason is not to be seen. Frankly, I do not care what people think about me.
I avoid the spotlight, actively. I have turned down more opportunities to appear at large scale wrestling events than Chris Page has turned down invitations he was never given.
Damn. I can’t keep his name out of my mouth. I’m so obsessed with him.
I can’t help it. He’s like a pube that you can’t get off your tongue no matter how many times you try.
I wouldn’t mind it so much if it came from giving head. At least that comes to an end, no pun intended. Hating Page doesn't.
Because there’s always a new reason to do it.
I digress. I am happy to validate myself against my own expectations, not worry whether the wrestling masses care about my contributions to it. What is the purpose of turning up on a cruise ship, fighting somebody with nothing at stake, and then gloating about it for the next two months until the next opportunity arrives? Self-gratuitous showboating.
Think of all the lists that do the rounds, the popularity contests. How many times does my name even come up, let alone sit near the top of those lists? Never.
But I look around me and see people who scream into the void, so desperately afraid to be unheard or unseen, forgotten about, that they make sure they are on every show, and involved in every interaction on social media. They have likely specific social media dashboards monitoring and segmenting different cross-sections of wrestling to make sure they are ever-present. But you know what they say, the loudest ones are the ones just trying to drown out the echoes of their own doubt.
Being seen means being watched and if you really were as good as you thought you were, would you care if people knew about it? Or would you just diligently do your work and let the results speak for themselves?
It always amuses me to see what people think they know about Stephen Stratford. What I allow them to know, what I give them to know. But it never amuses me as much as the realisation that washes over them as the reality starts gripping at their ankle like the undertow, and they know it’s far too late to course correct.
I want to be forgotten. I don’t need to be remembered. I just want to achieve, I want to test myself and know that when it mattered, I succeeded. I want to be the champion, to be the best, to prove that everything I sacrificed and overcame lead to success.
For me.
That’s why the TRIAD piqued my interest. It is not a popularity contest, and the cacophany of sycophantic voices has very little impact on the outcome. It is a meritocracy, with a finite number of potential outcomes. The pecking order is decided, and you fall where you may based on the objective outcome of your ability.
Whether you’ve got the most mates retweeting your name on some “who’s the best wrestler in the world right now?” quote tweet thread, or not.
TRIAD also seems to have attracted some of the exciting names in this business that I’ve yet to challenge myself against, which was another factor in my pursuit.
Fresh meat.
Another one of the lines I like to wheel out at a juncture such as this would be the allegory of climbing one mountain only to find it was a foothill to a much larger monolith that you only saw from the first ascent. Among the foothills of the TRIAD mountain walk mountaineers who’ve traversed every mountain in the world, and there are no free passes. If I truly want to prove my level, I can’t go wrong.
Straight out of the gate, two new faces and they’re ones that excite me. Ones that I put myself forward specifically to test myself against. Not those two in particular, but they are a good representation of what I mean.
Knox is a veteran, accomplished, tough as shit and relentless. I should know, I hand-picked him for Arcadia, after all. I’ve watched from afar and know when someone is hot air and when there is some substance beyond that. But he knows it too.
He’s used to being the centerpiece, to people knowing who he is. He enjoys the attention, even if its negative attention. If you were to ask him, he probably rolls his eyes at the social media darlings just as much as I do, but if you scroll his timeline, you’ll know his engagement numbers are his sustenance. The notification sound pierces through the silence, a prickling sensation like a needle puncturing flesh. It surges into his veins, an addictive elixir of validation.
He carries himself with an air of accomplishment, quick to remind everybody of his successes and at times even excuse his short-comings. He’s unapologetic, quick-witted and condescending to people.
He demands success from himself. He expects it. And I’m not necessarily saying that’s a bad thing. I mean, it’s not his fault that he’s better than everyone else, right?
I wonder how it must’ve felt to him when I was drafted first, then?
And then there is the matter of the third participant in the match, Helena Handbasket. Who I think is wonderful, genuinely. A shining starlet in an often-dim and bleak world, and I genuinely think they will be a star of the future.
For me, there’s a paradigm afoot of being the third wheel, stuck between father and kid. There’s uncertainties, for sure, because it is much harder to predict what way it might fall. It could quite easily be a two-on-one affair, where father and child work together to isolate me, to eliminate me from the equation, and they just might succeed. Knox is formidable but I’m confident that I have his number - with Helena added in, things could get hairy.
But if it plays out that way, then they have to figure the next step out. Does Dad pass the torch? Or is his insatiable appetite for validation so intense that he reminds the kid what the back of his hand feels like, and like a scolded child they yield? Or what if it goes the other way, and Helena decides it is time to put the old man to pasture? What if Helena doesn’t want to yield? What if Helena wants validation, and wants to step out from the ominous foreboding fatherly shadow?
Maybe Helena will shut him up once and for all. No pun intended. (Actually, intended.)
Whatever transpires leaves opportunity.
It is well known that I am meticulous with my planning and I find it difficult to cede control, but I am not so short-sighted to overlook the myriad possibilities that something of this nature could thrust upon me.
My “Plan B” is not to sit in the centre of the ring and throw a tantrum because things didn’t go the way I considered most likely.
I’ll pick whatever’s left of the bones when you have figured out who’s the hammer, and who’s the nail. Despite the fact that people call me a control freak, it really matters very little to me the outcome of your family reunion, I can bury you together in a nice little side-by-side set or I can scatter one in the ocean and the other in the cat litter. I’m easy with either.
It turns out, people don’t actually know me at all. They just think they do.
And that suits me fine.
—
In the wake of the predator's relentless onslaught, the hunting ground lay desolate, a graveyard of shattered lives. The predator reveled in its conquest, roaring triumphantly, deafening the world with its dominance. But from the ashes emerged an offspring, refusing to surrender to its parent's legacy.
In an unyielding clash, the young one confronted the predator, both driven by an unwavering determination. The battle raged, each refusing to back down, locked in a tragic dance of defiance. Their mutual refusal to yield led to their own downfall.
As dust settled on the scarred battlefield, the predator lay defeated, its roars silenced, and the young one stood battered, yet triumphant. A bitter victory, revealing the cost of their pride. They had shattered each other, leaving a haunting legacy of mutually assured destruction as a monolithic shadow, a mountain of darkness, emerges from the forest, casting its formidable silhouette over the weakened remains. A tantalising morsel, an effortless feast.
Fresh meat.