Are You Truly Happy—Or Just Performing Happiness?

I write this from the quiet of my Manhattan apartment at 3 a.m., the glow of my phone screen reflecting the last spin I didn’t win.

I used to believe that if I just kept spinning, something would break—the jackpot, the wilds, the free rounds. But after three years of watching symbols flash like distant constellations, I stopped chasing wins. Instead, I began listening.

The casino didn’t offer luck. It offered an echo.

My mother, raised on Samba rhythms and ancestral drums, taught me that joy isn’t found in outcomes—it’s held in pauses. My father, steeped in Talmudic stillness, whispered: ‘The machine doesn’t know your heart—it knows your silence.’

I tried high-volatility games first—fast wins, loud bells—and broke myself trying to outrun randomness. Then came nights where nothing lit up but the breath between spins.

RTP wasn’t fairness. It was fiction dressed as math.

So now I choose low-volatility slots—not because they pay more—but because they let me breathe between spins. The free rounds? They’re not bonuses. They’re moments when the machine forgets you’re playing—and remembers you’re human.

I don’t play to win anymore.

I play to remember that happiness isn’t earned by symbols—it’s lived in stillness.

Tonight—I left my phone on silent and walked into the rain.