Trophy Room

There are two ways men encounter their achievements. The first man perpetually returns to his glory days. Dwelling in the moments when his victorious, virile self reigned, he retreats to his trophy room for his dignity. His pride is past tense.

The trophy room is a lonely place.

However, the best of us box up the medals and plaques to put up egg-carton wall-insulation, to make room for the easel, a space for the pottery wheel, a spot for umbrella lights, a home for the type-writer, a corner for the punching bag, and a place for the green screen.

The second man glances over his shoulder finding nothing to hold on to. Every win is a dim intangible memory. For him progress is the only medicine. His trophies are like meals already eaten. They sustained him, but offer little help the day after.

His achievements merely aid him in seeking new and worthy foes. They propel him forward into dangerous and unfamiliar territory.

When a trophy room is converted into a rehearsal space, man is finally deserving of his trophies.