There were moments when he was playing, where everything aligned. Decisions made sense, listening guided action and nothing felt forced. Then there were other moments, he seemed to operate on automatic pilot programmed by incomplete information. Both were him. The difference, he began to suspect, was not intelligence, but attention. When he was paying attention, he was less stupid. When he wasn’t, he was reliably so. This did not solve anything. Still the same kinds of mistakes. Still things forgot. Still misunderstood. Still spoke too soon. But now, when it happened, there was an additional layer. Recognition. He would catch himself in the act, or just after.

“Oh,” he would think, almost with admiration.
“That’s impressive.”

Impressive in its ability to appear even after years of experience, after all the reading, all the playing, all the thinking. It suggested something he had not wanted to admit. That stupidity was not a flaw to be eliminated. It was a condition to be observed. He began to treat it that way. Not indulging it, but not pretending it would disappear. Not building an identity around it, but not denying its presence. Just noticing. And occasionally, when the timing was right, laughing. Which, he found, reduced its power slightly. Not completely. But enough.