When the Neon Lights Fade

I sit here again—coffee gone cold, rain tapping the window of my Chicago apartment. Outside, the city pulses with headlights and digital sirens, but inside? No one’s talking. Not really.

I Was Trained to Believe Winning Meant Something

At Meta, they taught us to optimize behavior through data streams and reward algorithms. We were told: “Higher hit rates mean higher value.” But after months of tracking wins that never came? I stopped believing it was about skill.

The Engine’s Hum Is Louder Than Any Jackpot

The luxury car doesn’t roar because it’s fast—it roars because it’s empty. The neon lights don’t glow for you—they flicker when you’re alone. That’s when you hear it: not a win, not a bonus… but a breath you didn’t know you needed.

They Call It ‘Strategy.’ I Call It Silence.

New players chase the next spin like children chasing fireflies at dusk. Veterans calculate risk like poets counting stars—each number a prayer whispered into code.

I used to think if I played long enough, I’d be seen.

Turns out—I’m not invisible because I lose. I’m invisible because no one asked if I was there.

What If You Just Stopped?

Last night, I switched to low stakes. Didn’t press ‘spin.’ Just sat there—with coffee cold—and listened to how quiet everything gets when nothing is trying to be heard.

You don’t need more wins. You need someone to notice you’re still sitting there—even when the lights go out.