This is how the world ends.
I still log on, but with no ambition. I watch the people run past, rushing to and fro, slotting their slots so that they can replace them again. Fighting for gear, fighting for progression, fighting for server rank, fighting for world rank. Driven by their social demands for approval, that's been twisted into dominance. Or, in truth, the banishment of all failure. Absolutism will tolerate no other form.
Many times, I have tried to walk away. Each time it took anger, resentment, circumstance, and a declaration. But such passion can only be summoned from attachment. Perhaps of a bitter kind, like shackles on one's psyche. Where one is horrified at themselves for the needle in their arm, or the minipet on their toolbar, with that absurd and disgusting desire for more. The kind of dependence driven by fear, the fear of living any other way.
Now, the shackles are loose, for I must be wasting away. I slip them off from time to time, and back on again, but it's now just a habit. Sometimes I hardly remember their weight on my soul, those terrible and consuming passions, and often I forget to put them back on. No, there's been no cancellations of subscriptions. I don't even think about it. It's become irrelevant to me what happens. I still invent duties and responsibilities. I make bullets, I sell bullets. And then I forget that the game is even running.
This is how the world ends.
I tried to make it impersonal and professional; I tried to shed my soul. That is, I tried a new raiding guild. But the apathy was strong, so strong that I did not feel a thing. I left in the middle of the night without a word to anyone. I doubt they noticed. If they did, then my conviction is that much stronger. I didn't care about them, and I didn't want them to care. I wanted nothing, in its purest form.
I felt the pressure through the headset on their Algalon attempts, orders of magnitude greater than the sound against my eardrums. My imagination amplified the pounding another tenfold, pounding and pounding against the gates of Icecrown, with its limited attempts twisting and heaving and pressuring us more and more. And I knew that I had to escape. I could not fight with them, I would not rise to the expectations of these strangers. And my own expectations were insignificant, invisible to their eyes.
I should have left at the moment when they questioned a red gem vs. purple+set bonus choice. Five DPS. Give me a fucking break.
This is how the world ends.
I am not quitting. I don't think I have the desire to quit.
Somewhere, I still hear whispers calling me to Icecrown, for the head of the Lich King, to finish what I started. But they are so faint, and the shackles are just strands.
These days, I do not play. But I haven't played for years. I have worked. And fought. But I have fought for too long.
Now, I don't think about it. I just sit. And wait.
Not with a bang but a whimper.







