Are you truly happy—or just performing happiness on a slot machine?

I sat alone at 3 a.m., staring at the glowing reels of a slot machine named ‘Carnival of Ghosts.’ The桑巴 drums had stopped. The tropical lights flickered like memories I couldn’t afford to keep.

I used to play for wins—believing that if I spun long enough, luck would find me. But the RNG doesn’t know your name. It doesn’t care that you cried last Tuesday.

My mother said, ‘You don’t need to win—you need to feel.’ My father whispered, ‘Even joy has a price—and it’s not in the jackpot.’

I chose a low-volatility game last month. Not because I was scared—but because I was tired of pretending joy is earned by blinking lights and fake applause.

Free spins? They don’t make you rich. They make you quiet.

The Wild symbols? They replace nothing but your longing.

Jackpots? They grow when you stop believing they’ll come.

I once thought this was entertainment. Now I know: it’s meditation with noise.

You don’t escape reality by leaving—it’s by sitting still while the wheel turns.

Tonight, if you’re still awake—ask yourself: are you truly happy—or just performing happiness?

I left my apartment window open tonight. The city outside didn’t answer back.