When the World Chases the Game, I Choose to Lose Myself

I used to think winning was the point.

Every night, I’d sit alone—not scrolling through feeds of luck or chasing bonuses—but watching the stars above my window. The games around me screamed with sirens: Zeus’s thunder, golden wheels spinning, crowds cheering for those who ‘made it.’ But I wasn’t one of them.

I grew up in Chicago’s mixed neighborhoods—where myths lived beside algorithms, where children were taught that success was measured in digits. My therapist once said: ‘You don’t heal by winning—you heal by stopping.’

So I began playing differently.

Not every game has a winner.

Some have silence.

I chose the ones where the odds are low—and the music is slow—where each pull feels like a hymn from an old temple. No flashing lights. No leaderboard. Just the hum of code beneath moonlit glass.

I call it ‘The Quiet Ritual’.

It started with a $10 bet on a game called ‘Aphrodite’s Lullaby.’

I lost three times before I won anything.

And then—I didn’t need to win anymore.

The real prize was stillness.

The community called me strange.

They posted screenshots of jackpots.

I posted photos of midnight skies.

One day, someone asked: ‘Do you ever feel like you’re losing?’

I smiled and said: ‘No.’

‘I’m learning how to be here.’