Bloody Knuckles & Broken Bones (On Mistakes That Matter)

by: E.M. Burlingame

The world’s a goddamn maze built by drunkards. You stumble through it blindfolded half the time. You think you see a door? Probably a brick wall painted by some grinning bastard who gets off on the thud your head makes. You think you found solid ground? Quicksand, pal. Always quicksand. Mistakes? They ain't just gonna happen. They are the tripwire, the loose floorboard, the unexpected uppercut when you’re reaching for your wallet. You will make them. Big ones. Ugly ones. Ones that cost you blood, cash, sleep, and maybe a chunk of your soul you can’t ever glue back.

Think you’re special? Think you got the map? Hell no. You got handed a compass spinning like a whore in a hurricane. You step in shit. You trust the wrong mouth. You bet on the nag with three busted legs. You hurt people you didn’t mean to. You hurt yourself worse. That’s the damn admission price to this filthy carnival.

It ain’t just the world’s raw, snarling chaos, though there’s plenty of that. It’s the vultures circling in the chaos. The dealers stacking the deck. The whisperers peddling poison as wisdom. The controllers tightening screws you didn’t even know existed. You navigate fog, and half the shapes in it are knives aimed at your back. Subterfuge. Deception. The whole rotten orchestra plays while you try to hear your own damn thoughts. Getting it wrong ain’t failure; it’s breathing.

The river is wide. The current is strong. The rocks are hidden. You misread the water. You choose the wrong channel. The canoe strikes. Wood splinters. Water is cold. Very cold. This is not theory. This is the weight of the current, the sharpness of the rock. Mistakes have weight. They have teeth.

But here’s the gut-check: You don’t get to lie bleeding in the rapids feeling sorry for yourself. Not for long. The cost of wallowing? It compounds. Like rot. Like interest on a loan from a shark. That small lie you let fester? It becomes gangrene. That debt ignored? It becomes a cage. That trust you broke and didn’t mend? It becomes a wall, thick and high. The price of not righting the wrong, not stemming the bleed, not facing the goddamn music? It’s the loss of all. Your footing. Your honor. Your shot at anything clean. Maybe your life. Maybe others'.

Yeah, you screwed the pooch. Fine. Wallow in the stink for a minute. Taste the shame. It’s sour, ain’t it? Good. Now get off your ass. Scrape the shit off your shoes. Apologize if it means something. Pay the debt even if it leaves you broke. Fix what you busted, even if the glue shows. Do it fast. Do it clean. No fancy speeches. No excuses that sound like a cat hacking up a hairball. Just do it. Before the rot sets in deep. Before the debt collector comes with brass knuckles.

Speed matters. Conciseness matters. Don’t dance around the wreckage. Don’t paint the broken bone. Set it. Fast and hard. The scream is temporary. The limp lasts forever if you don't. The small wrong ignored becomes the canyon you can’t cross. The nearly impossible wrong? You chip at it. Stone by stone. Day by day. Because the alternative is surrender. And surrender in this game means being consumed. By the debt. By the guilt. By the vultures you birthed with your delay.

Righting a wrong is not victory. It is necessity. Like stopping the bleed. Like bailing the boat. You do not celebrate bailing. You do it to stay afloat. To have another hour. Another day on the water. The mistake is the wound. The correction is the pressure. Applied quickly. Applied firmly. Hesitation is infection. Complexity is death. See the damage. Act. Cleanly.

The world is vast. Unknowable. Hostile. Full of traps and teeth. You will step in them. You will break things. You will draw blood, often your own. But nobility, the only kind that matters in this gutter, isn’t about being perfect. It’s about the speed with which you grab the rag, the splint, the shovel. It’s about stopping the spread of your own damn poison. It’s about looking the cost in the eye, paying it, and walking away cleaner, even if you’re limping. Even if you’re broke.

Because the Infinite Game – that long, hard, everything to enable more – demands it. One un-mended crack sinks the whole ship. One festering wound kills the warrior. You make the mistake. You bleed. Then you stitch it up. Yourself. No whining. Just the work. The cost of not paying is bankruptcy. Total. Absolute. Final. For you. And for anyone caught in the collapse you didn't stop.

So get good with the needle and thread, pal. Or get used to the dark.