Game declined

Every game needs two players. Without a counter-move, it simply is not a game.

Someone decides you are not enough of the thing you are. They hand you a word. Sometimes it is gentle, almost affectionate. Sometimes it cuts. The word changes depending on where you stand and who is doing the measuring, but the mechanism is always the same. You are being tested against a standard you did not set, judged by rules you did not write, and found wanting by someone who appointed themselves the judge.

Here is how it works.

A comment about your language, your customs, your choices, your distance from a place they consider the source. The comment carries an implication: you have strayed too far, diluted too much, forgotten something essential. You are less than you should be. This is the opening move.

Your go. Will you defend yourself? Will you list your credentials, recite your knowledge, prove your belonging? Do it, and you have entered the game. And in entering, you have already validated the premise — that their judgment holds weight, that your identity is something external to be audited and approved, that you owe proof.

Defense is participation. And participation is loss.

The board is fiction. The hierarchy being defended is arbitrary. The authenticity you are being measured against is a moving target, a test designed so that someone like you cannot pass. The game was rigged from the start. The only way to win is not to play.

Refusal is hearing the comment, seeing the board being set up, and choosing not to move your piece. Letting the move fall into empty space, unanswered, unmet. No counter-move. No game.

Underneath the comment, someone is trying to hand you their pain. Their discomfort with change, with displacement, with the impossibility of keeping cultures pure in a world that has always been mixing. Unresolved grief about staying or leaving, about holding on or letting go, about carrying a weight they never chose but cannot put down.

You do not have to take it.

Secure people welcome. They are curious. They ask questions not to test but to understand. They share what they know without making you feel that your not-knowing is a failure. Their sense of self is not threatened by your existence.

Insecure people build hierarchies. They measure suffering as if it were a credential. They need you to be lesser so they can be more. They need you to fail the test so their passing it still means something. Because if you are allowed to belong without meeting their standards, without carrying what they carry, without suffering the way they suffered — then maybe the standards were never real. And that is unbearable.

Suffering seeks company.

Without a counter-move, it is not a game. It is just someone talking to themselves.

Identity is not a test you pass or fail. It is not something external that can be measured, graded, audited by others. It is lived. It is felt. It is the accumulation of a thousand small inheritances, choices, accidents, migrations, losses, and survivals that you did not choose but carry anyway. You do not owe proof. You do not owe performance. You do not owe anyone the story of how you came to be the way you are.

There is no authentic version of you that exists somewhere else, in some other language, some other place, some other life. There is only this version. The one standing here. Shaped by migration and survival and a hundred choices made by people who came before you. Carrying inheritances you did not choose but cannot put down. Trying to live in a world that keeps asking you to pick a side when you are made of many.

You are the result of movement, of mixture, of borders crossed and languages learned and cultures held loosely because holding them tightly would break them. You are what happens when worlds collide and create something new.

And new simply is new.

The Alternate Reality

An excerpt from While We Still Have Time, forthcoming 2026.

Allow me to paint an alternate reality.

***

I walk the path of conformity, securing a mundane job and adhering to a timeline dictated by society’s wishes. I tread in respectable mediocrity before making any decisions, postponing life under the illusion of endless time. I put on a mask of happiness, sacrificing my true self for the empty approval of those around me. I am perpetually out of place, misunderstood, and perhaps even at odds with my own essence. I am a social tool, fitting neatly into precise compartments that offer a false sense of security. I outsource my beauty, my worth, my happiness, letting others reflect it back to me so I don’t have to feel it directly.

I look down on freedom, and those who cannot follow my predictable path, their freedom a threat to my fragile sense of superiority. In this pursuit, I believe in my superiority, a puppet master in a world of my own making, where the only truth is the facade I present. I document my life obsessively, not what I am seeing but myself seeing it. I am already imagining the image while the moment is still unfolding. I stand somewhere beautiful thinking about how I look standing there. Being seen replaces being. No one questions this anymore. We call it sharing. We call it memory. When all it is is proof-gathering for a life that isn’t being lived.

In this alternate reality, I am applauded for my restraint. People call me grounded, realistic, mature, because I have learned how to silence the part of me that wanted too much. I confuse numbness with peace. I mistake predictability for safety. I congratulate myself for surviving a life I was never meant to inhabit.

I only walk to my car. I sit inside a sealed machine that protects me while exposing everyone else, a private capsule of speed and force where my attention carries consequences beyond my own body. I growl at traffic as if it weren’t made almost entirely of people exactly like me. I demand speed while contributing weight. Every street becomes a test I barely notice: children, cyclists, elderly bodies calibrated against my impatience. A kill machine, normalised, regulated, insured, handed over daily as responsibility disguised as convenience. I burn fuel to spare myself the effort of distance, traveling on roads designed to fail gradually, absorbing destruction into routine. Roads disappear beneath my feet so I can arrive sooner, untouchable.

I scroll through other people’s lives to reassure myself that no one is truly free. I consume inspiration in controlled doses, careful never to let it infect me with action. I say one day so often it becomes a lullaby that puts my courage to sleep. My dopamine levels fluctuate like the waves I can’t ride. From morning till evening I can’t eat without my phone glowing beside my plate. I promise myself I’ll quit, detoxify, limit, delete and dismiss every method that would actually inconvenience me. I believe I have discipline but I simply decide I won’t do it just yet. The phone keeps me stimulated enough to feel content and distracted enough to avoid feeling trapped.

I become fluent at making excuses. Time, money, stability and responsibility. I tell myself I’m choosing this life but the truth is I’m avoiding the fear of choosing anything at all. I grow intolerant of depth. When conversations drift toward meaning, death, or desire, I redirect them to logistics. I cannot afford to look too closely. Awareness would demand movement, and movement would expose the lie. So I stay busy. Productivity numbs the pain I won’t even name.

I develop a quiet resentment toward anyone who lives loudly. Artists embarrass me. Lovers who risk everything irritate me. People who leave unsettle me. Their existence implies that I could have done otherwise, and that is an implication I cannot survive intact. So I mock and pity them, reducing them to cautionary tales, anything to keep my own reflection from cracking.

I go on retreats where enlightenment is sold to me for three thousand pounds guided by Greg from California, while locals work invisibly to keep the experience seamless. Nothing signals awakening like money well spent. I outsource the slow, humiliating work of introspection to a schedule, a package, a payment plan. I leave lighter, cleaner, convinced I’ve arrived, then return unchanged, reassured that depth remains a product I can access whenever I’m ready to pay.

I tell myself I care about the planet as I inhabit cities that import everything we consume. I want to see untapped places and tap them, while calling it curiosity and exploration, while deep down I know it would be too raw for me. I want to numb myself on holidays where all I do is lie still, recovering from the exhaustion of a life I call successful. I am a hypocrite flying across the world, the single largest personal carbon load most people ever create and I know it. I offset, I rationalize, as the fuel is burning beneath me. I live in a city plugged into extreme resource use, sustained by imported food, constant climate control, endless infrastructure, and I sip a matcha oat latte while knowing better. I buy sustainable things to consume without guilt: new yoga mats, new bottles, new clothes wrapped in eco-language. I know better, and continue anyway.

In this reality, I am dazzled by height and shine. Skyscrapers convince me of progress. Glass towers rising from sand feel like achievement, even when I know they are built on invisible hands, on imported bodies that will never look up from the ground they poured. I admire the bling while pretending not to see the cost: cities covered in luxury, faces frozen in Botox, abundance displayed like a weapon. I mistake excess for power, spectacle for substance. I tell myself it’s impressive, aspirational, the future, as I carefully avoid asking who paid for it, who disappeared into it, who will never belong to the skyline they built. I let myself be seduced by the glow because it saves me from asking harder questions about what kind of world I am applauding.

I tell myself I am above chaos, when in reality I am terrified of aliveness. I confuse control with dignity. I confuse order with meaning. I confuse comfort with fulfillment. And slowly, expertly, I become someone who is very good at living, and very bad at being alive. Years pass without leaving a mark. My body ages, but my inner world remains untouched, untested, unspent. I grow older without growing deeper. I accumulate objects, routines, acquaintances, but no stories that could save me if everything were stripped away. And one day it dawns on me that I have become invisible to myself. The dull, unbearable knowing that I did everything right, and I still betrayed my life.

Not that this life is painful, but that it is acceptable.

The Cage Question

Imagine that you are in a cage.

However, you are not human but animal.

1. Tell me the first animal that comes to your mind.

2. Describe the cage in as much detail as possible.

***

The cage offers a window into how we understand ourselves, our limitations, and the often unspoken rules that govern our lives. The animal symbolises the raw, unfiltered essence of who we are, while the cage represents the external structures imposed by society, family, or even our own minds, which we perceive as containing us.

This exercise is a way to get to know someone better. Ask them for their thoughts on their chosen animal and keep asking for more details. What colour is the floor? What's in the corner? Understand what their cage looks like and how they feel inside it.

When asked to describe their chosen animal, people unconsciously reveal their feelings: how they view their constraints and their potential for freedom. People talk about it without realising it, it's disarming. Some see themselves as raging bulls, straining against the bars. Others might envision themselves as birds, unable to imagine a cage, seeing it as a room where they can fly high and gain new perspectives.

There is no difference between the cage and the animal because the boundaries we think we see, the limitations we feel, are essentially linked to the essence of who we are. The cage is not an external force keeping us trapped. It is an extension of the animal, of us, a manifestation of how we perceive the world and our place in it.

For some, the bars are thick and unyielding, representing deep beliefs, fears, or societal expectations that feel impossible to break free from. For others, the cage may be fragile, barely noticeable, something that could be shifted at any moment if only they realised their own power.

Those who are fully assimilated by society won't see the cage; they are so into the illusion they see no boundaries.

You can't possibly be comfortable everywhere. The people who don't see the cage, who think they are free, are often those most confined by it. They are so deeply assimilated into the expectations and norms of society that they don't even realise they're in a cage at all. For these people, the cage has become indistinguishable from the world they live in.

To see the cage, to feel its bars, is the first step toward freedom, because in recognising the boundaries, you give yourself the power to redefine them.

Some see themselves as dragon lying dormant. Their cage is made out of twigs so thin that if the dragon moves the cage collapses. The cage has a sword going through securing the enclosed there.

When I was first proposed this question, I saw myself as a tiger: fierce and strong, caged within a zoo-like structure. The bars were thick and unyielding, allowing minimal space to walk in a circle. The ceiling was so high that the tiger could not see the end, leaving it to wonder if there was ever an escape.

I've always identified with a tiger. Growing up in a country different from my heritage, I often felt the pressure to assimilate, clinging to anything that made me feel part of the society around me. These were desperate attempts to fit in and be accepted. Within those confines, I've become both resilient and strong. I like having my space and feeling secure in it. The adaptability I've developed reminds me of a big cat: flexible yet firm. Tigers are known for being unpredictable, quick to make decisive moves. Similarly, my emotions can flare up intensely, yet at other times, I am calm and steady, like a quiet giant. There's an untamed strength in tigers, but also a sense of grace. That combination is where my confidence resides.

The question is not whether the cage exists but whether we understand it for what it is. The tiger, the dragon, the bird: they are all aspects of ourselves, representing how we move through life, how we see our power, and how we navigate our perceived limitations. But the cage, too, is part of us. It's a creation of our minds, built from our beliefs about the world and our place in it. When we understand that the cage is of our own making, we can begin to shape it, bend it, and eventually walk through it with the power of knowing we were never truly confined.

There is no world outside of you. Everything you experience is a reflection of your own thoughts, perceptions, and beliefs. The cage is not imposed by society, nor is it forced upon you by external forces. It is you. The world, as we know it, is a mental construct. When you change your mind, you change your world.

Just as the cage can be a symbol of confinement, it can also be a symbol of transformation. The cage, initially seen as a binding constraint, can, however, evolve into a sanctuary that not only helps us exist in a certain way but also protects us and aids in navigation. The cage is something to be understood. And in that understanding lies the key to our freedom.

Parrot in a Sea of Penguins

Some people think a hundred thousand dollars is the hardest thing to earn. For others, they can just get a hundred thousand.

The concept of earning is small. You can lecture me about earning while I enjoy my life in the suburbs. Are you trying to prove a point? So what if I didn't earn it with hard work? I was born with it. You made it to Earth: did you earn that? Do you earn who you are or where you are? You have not earned anything, no matter what.

Because I earn money, I have earned the right to live? Absurdity. Our value and right to exist aren’t defined solely by our economic contribution but by our intrinsic worth as human beings and the unique qualities we bring to the world. Your worth is inherent in who you are: the kindness you show, the connections you build, the impact you make through your authenticity. Earn the things that matter to you. It's never next time, it's now.

Parrot in a sea of penguins.

You need to establish a person’s worldview to get to know someone. Some people believe to exist is to make money. And the same perspectives tend to hand out together because they perpetuate that worldview and won’t question it.

What does rich mean to you? What does making a living mean? What if I live on a farm and don’t even use money? Is that making a living?

The answer depends entirely on the worldview of the person you are speaking to.

Which is why you have to establish that first. You have to know what game they think they are playing, what winning looks like from where they stand, what they would say if you asked them quietly, without judgment, on an ordinary Tuesday: what does any of this mean to you?

Because some people will answer with a number.

And some people will pause.

And in that pause, in the space between the question and whatever comes next, that is where you find out who you are actually talking to.