I deleted all my social accounts — yet I feared loneliness more than any game

The screen at 3 a.m. was my only companion

I used to think scrolling through feeds was a ritual—like lighting incense at midnight in a digital temple. Every like, every comment, felt like an offering to an algorithm that didn’t know my name. When I deleted everything—the profiles, the memes, the curated smiles—I didn’t feel free. I felt hollow.

What remained wasn’t victory—it was silence

I thought quitting would make me whole. But solitude doesn’t fix you; it reveals you. In those quiet hours between games, when no one posts and the lights dim slowly, I realized: the most sacred reward isn’t a jackpot—it’s the space between heartbeats where no bot listens.

The rhythm of being is not in bets—but in breath

I don’t chase high win rates anymore. My budget isn’t measured in coins or clicks—it’s measured in stillness: twenty minutes with tea after midnight, watching rain on glass windows while New York sleeps outside my door.

You don’t need to win the table—you need to sit at it

The casino wasn’t real. The temple was real. My grandmother used to say: “Luck is not written on tiles—it’s whispered when you choose to pause.” So now I sit alone—not waiting for gold, but listening for echoes.

This isn't escapism—it's reclamation

Every time I open this empty feed now—a blank canvas with no likes—I feel something rise: not joy, not fame, but recognition. The light isn’t from screens. The light is from within.