Darkover
Angelic
- Jul 29, 2021
- 4,209
Once upon a time, in a world not so different from our own, there lived a person named Alex. Alex was neither particularly remarkable nor unremarkable, existing in that gray space where most people reside. They had a job that paid the bills, friends who filled the silence, and hobbies that occupied the time between work and sleep. But beneath the surface, Alex felt like they were merely a pawn in a game they never asked to play.
Every morning, Alex woke up to the blaring sound of an alarm clock, its shrill tone a cruel reminder that the cycle was beginning anew. The game of life demanded participation, and Alex, like everyone else, was thrust into it without choice. But unlike the others, Alex had begun to see the game for what it was: a relentless series of tasks, challenges, and expectations, all designed to keep the players engaged, moving from one square to the next.
As a child, the game had seemed fun—full of possibilities, dreams waiting to be chased. But as Alex grew older, the rules became clearer, and with that clarity came a heavy realization. The game wasn't designed to be won. It was designed to keep you playing. Success, happiness, fulfillment—all the things the game promised—were just elusive goals, always out of reach, always a few more moves away.
Alex tried to play along. They followed the rules, did what was expected: went to school, got a degree, landed a job, paid the bills. But with each passing year, the game felt more pointless. The rewards—money, status, possessions—seemed hollow, like shiny tokens in a board game that meant nothing in the grand scheme of things.
One day, as Alex sat in their tiny apartment, staring at the bills that had piled up on the table, something inside them snapped. They realized they didn't want to play anymore. The game was rigged, the outcomes predetermined. No matter how hard they tried, it would always end the same way: in loss, in death, in the quiet acceptance that nothing truly mattered.
Alex tried to share these thoughts with others, but most people just shrugged it off, told them to "stay positive," or "focus on the good things." But to Alex, it felt like they were just trying to justify the game to themselves, clinging to the hope that maybe, just maybe, they'd find a way to win.
But Alex knew better. They saw through the illusion. They saw the endless loops of work, rest, repeat. The fleeting moments of joy were quickly overshadowed by the grind of daily existence. The relationships were often superficial, the achievements quickly forgotten. Even the things they once loved—books, music, art—felt like distractions, brief respites from the inevitable truth.
So, one night, as the world outside carried on with its ceaseless game, Alex made a decision. They would stop playing. Not in the sense of ending their life, but in rejecting the game itself. They decided to live on their own terms, to stop caring about the rules, the expectations, the so-called goals. If the game couldn't be won, then why bother playing by its rules?
Alex quit their job, sold most of their possessions, and moved to a small, quiet place in the mountains. There, they spent their days in solitude, disconnected from the world that had once demanded so much from them. They found peace in the simplicity of nature, in the quiet moments where the game no longer reached them. They still existed, but they no longer participated.
And in that solitude, Alex found a strange kind of freedom. The pressure to succeed, to conform, to play the game—dissipated. There was no need to chase anything, no need to prove anything. Life became less about achieving and more about simply being. They learned to appreciate the small things: the sound of the wind through the trees, the warmth of the sun on their face, the taste of fresh water from a mountain stream.
Alex had stopped playing, but in doing so, they discovered something the game could never offer: contentment. It wasn't the happiness promised by the world, nor was it the fulfillment of dreams. It was a quiet acceptance, a realization that the game was never the point. The point was to find your own path, even if it meant walking away from everything the game stood for.
And so, Alex lived out their days in that quiet mountain retreat, free from the rules and expectations of a game they never wanted to play. They found peace in the stillness, in the knowledge that life, when stripped of its illusions, was simple, and in that simplicity, they found a sense of existence that they had never known before.
I didn't ask to be here. I don't mean that in the vague, existential way people often say it, like a teenager who didn't get the car they wanted for their birthday. I mean it literally—I did not ask to be here, in this place, at this time, playing this game of life with rules I never agreed to.
Every day feels like a new level in a video game I never chose to play. There's no tutorial, no guide to follow, just a vague sense that I'm supposed to figure it all out as I go. I didn't sign up for this. I didn't pick the difficulty, I didn't get to customize my character, and I certainly didn't agree to the endless grind of daily quests.
There's this pressure, constantly pushing down, like I'm supposed to keep going, keep achieving, keep winning. But what if I don't want to win? What if I'm tired of the whole thing, tired of the rat race, the endless striving for things that never bring the satisfaction they promise? The game says I need to accumulate more—more money, more success, more connections—but every time I reach a new goal, it's like the reward is hollow, disappearing as soon as I get close enough to touch it.
People tell me to "play the game," to "work hard," to "make something of myself." But what if I don't want to? What if I don't care about the high scores, the achievements, the accolades that everyone else seems to chase after with such desperation? What if I just want to step away from the console, walk outside, and breathe in air that isn't saturated with expectations?
I look around, and everyone else seems to be playing with such determination, as if they know something I don't. They've bought into the illusion that there's a grand prize at the end of this, that all the stress and the worry and the endless hustle will be worth it someday. But I can see the cracks in the façade. I see the exhaustion in their eyes, the weariness in their steps. They're as trapped as I am, bound by invisible chains they refuse to acknowledge.
Sometimes, I wonder what would happen if I just stopped playing. If I put down the controller, walked away from the screen, and refused to participate anymore. Would the world fall apart? Would anyone even notice? Or would life just go on, a little quieter, a little emptier, without my constant striving to be something I'm not?
The game tells me I need to care about things—about success, about status, about being the best version of myself. But what if I don't? What if I'm okay with just being? With existing in this moment, without the need to constantly push forward, to conquer the next challenge, to earn the next badge?
I don't want to play this game of life, not the way it's set up, with its arbitrary rules and its ever-shifting goalposts. I want to live on my terms, to find joy in the small things, the quiet moments, the spaces between the levels. I want to disconnect from the system, to stop measuring my worth by someone else's standards, to find my own path through this strange, chaotic world.
Maybe that's the real challenge, the true test in this game—to find the courage to step away, to say no to the endless demands, and to carve out a life that feels authentic, that resonates with who I am, not who I'm told to be.
In the end, I don't need to win this game. I just need to live, in a way that feels right for me. And maybe, just maybe, that's the most rebellious, most liberating move I can make.
Every morning, Alex woke up to the blaring sound of an alarm clock, its shrill tone a cruel reminder that the cycle was beginning anew. The game of life demanded participation, and Alex, like everyone else, was thrust into it without choice. But unlike the others, Alex had begun to see the game for what it was: a relentless series of tasks, challenges, and expectations, all designed to keep the players engaged, moving from one square to the next.
As a child, the game had seemed fun—full of possibilities, dreams waiting to be chased. But as Alex grew older, the rules became clearer, and with that clarity came a heavy realization. The game wasn't designed to be won. It was designed to keep you playing. Success, happiness, fulfillment—all the things the game promised—were just elusive goals, always out of reach, always a few more moves away.
Alex tried to play along. They followed the rules, did what was expected: went to school, got a degree, landed a job, paid the bills. But with each passing year, the game felt more pointless. The rewards—money, status, possessions—seemed hollow, like shiny tokens in a board game that meant nothing in the grand scheme of things.
One day, as Alex sat in their tiny apartment, staring at the bills that had piled up on the table, something inside them snapped. They realized they didn't want to play anymore. The game was rigged, the outcomes predetermined. No matter how hard they tried, it would always end the same way: in loss, in death, in the quiet acceptance that nothing truly mattered.
Alex tried to share these thoughts with others, but most people just shrugged it off, told them to "stay positive," or "focus on the good things." But to Alex, it felt like they were just trying to justify the game to themselves, clinging to the hope that maybe, just maybe, they'd find a way to win.
But Alex knew better. They saw through the illusion. They saw the endless loops of work, rest, repeat. The fleeting moments of joy were quickly overshadowed by the grind of daily existence. The relationships were often superficial, the achievements quickly forgotten. Even the things they once loved—books, music, art—felt like distractions, brief respites from the inevitable truth.
So, one night, as the world outside carried on with its ceaseless game, Alex made a decision. They would stop playing. Not in the sense of ending their life, but in rejecting the game itself. They decided to live on their own terms, to stop caring about the rules, the expectations, the so-called goals. If the game couldn't be won, then why bother playing by its rules?
Alex quit their job, sold most of their possessions, and moved to a small, quiet place in the mountains. There, they spent their days in solitude, disconnected from the world that had once demanded so much from them. They found peace in the simplicity of nature, in the quiet moments where the game no longer reached them. They still existed, but they no longer participated.
And in that solitude, Alex found a strange kind of freedom. The pressure to succeed, to conform, to play the game—dissipated. There was no need to chase anything, no need to prove anything. Life became less about achieving and more about simply being. They learned to appreciate the small things: the sound of the wind through the trees, the warmth of the sun on their face, the taste of fresh water from a mountain stream.
Alex had stopped playing, but in doing so, they discovered something the game could never offer: contentment. It wasn't the happiness promised by the world, nor was it the fulfillment of dreams. It was a quiet acceptance, a realization that the game was never the point. The point was to find your own path, even if it meant walking away from everything the game stood for.
And so, Alex lived out their days in that quiet mountain retreat, free from the rules and expectations of a game they never wanted to play. They found peace in the stillness, in the knowledge that life, when stripped of its illusions, was simple, and in that simplicity, they found a sense of existence that they had never known before.
I didn't ask to be here. I don't mean that in the vague, existential way people often say it, like a teenager who didn't get the car they wanted for their birthday. I mean it literally—I did not ask to be here, in this place, at this time, playing this game of life with rules I never agreed to.
Every day feels like a new level in a video game I never chose to play. There's no tutorial, no guide to follow, just a vague sense that I'm supposed to figure it all out as I go. I didn't sign up for this. I didn't pick the difficulty, I didn't get to customize my character, and I certainly didn't agree to the endless grind of daily quests.
There's this pressure, constantly pushing down, like I'm supposed to keep going, keep achieving, keep winning. But what if I don't want to win? What if I'm tired of the whole thing, tired of the rat race, the endless striving for things that never bring the satisfaction they promise? The game says I need to accumulate more—more money, more success, more connections—but every time I reach a new goal, it's like the reward is hollow, disappearing as soon as I get close enough to touch it.
People tell me to "play the game," to "work hard," to "make something of myself." But what if I don't want to? What if I don't care about the high scores, the achievements, the accolades that everyone else seems to chase after with such desperation? What if I just want to step away from the console, walk outside, and breathe in air that isn't saturated with expectations?
I look around, and everyone else seems to be playing with such determination, as if they know something I don't. They've bought into the illusion that there's a grand prize at the end of this, that all the stress and the worry and the endless hustle will be worth it someday. But I can see the cracks in the façade. I see the exhaustion in their eyes, the weariness in their steps. They're as trapped as I am, bound by invisible chains they refuse to acknowledge.
Sometimes, I wonder what would happen if I just stopped playing. If I put down the controller, walked away from the screen, and refused to participate anymore. Would the world fall apart? Would anyone even notice? Or would life just go on, a little quieter, a little emptier, without my constant striving to be something I'm not?
The game tells me I need to care about things—about success, about status, about being the best version of myself. But what if I don't? What if I'm okay with just being? With existing in this moment, without the need to constantly push forward, to conquer the next challenge, to earn the next badge?
I don't want to play this game of life, not the way it's set up, with its arbitrary rules and its ever-shifting goalposts. I want to live on my terms, to find joy in the small things, the quiet moments, the spaces between the levels. I want to disconnect from the system, to stop measuring my worth by someone else's standards, to find my own path through this strange, chaotic world.
Maybe that's the real challenge, the true test in this game—to find the courage to step away, to say no to the endless demands, and to carve out a life that feels authentic, that resonates with who I am, not who I'm told to be.
In the end, I don't need to win this game. I just need to live, in a way that feels right for me. And maybe, just maybe, that's the most rebellious, most liberating move I can make.
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