I don't know why

I don’t know why I love chess so much, even if chess doesn’t love me back.

I don’t know why I love chess pieces, even if the King orders the imprisonment of my passion, even if the Queen betrays my expectations, even if the Rook becomes the tower of my defeat, even if the Bishop leads me to sin, even if the Knight thrusts my heart to disillusion, and even if the Pawn doesn’t promote my stature.

I don’t know why I see checkered squares of dark and light colors whenever I thread my way to work and home, whenever I stare at the ceiling when in bed, whenever I walk on tiled floors, whenever I glance at tiled walls.

I don’t know why I see chess moves whenever I watch war movies, whenever Pacquiao wields his power, might and grace in the ring, whenever I watch political tactics in the country, whenever I plan my work in the office and even the chores at home.

I don’t know why I want to say “Sicilian Dragon” whenever I buy medicine in a drugstore.

I don’t know why I think of “en passant” whenever I jostle my way in a heavily populated place.

I don’t know why I think of capturing chess pieces whenever I consume my food on the table, and say “checkmate” after consuming all what’s on the plate.

I don’t know why I say “checkmate” whenever I am going to be summoned by my wife for going home late at night because of playing chess outside.

Ah, the Queen. I don’t know why I think of its power whenever my wife wields her power over me, a lowly pawn.

I really don’t know why I love chess so much. How I wish for the moment when chess would learn to love me back . . .