on everything in the external world are just toys, it's all just a game.
Here’s the dirty little secret no one wants to admit:
everything out there is just toys.
Plastic distractions for grown-up children.
The cars. The watches. The titles. The “dream house” with the dead lawn and the two and a half bathrooms.
Toys.
Every last bit of it.
It’s a game, man.
All of it.
A big, loud, expensive game with fake rules and real consequences.
And the saddest part?
Most people don’t even know they’re playing.
They think the game is life.
They think winning means more likes, more square footage, more people clapping at their funeral.
But once you see it—really see it—it’s laughable.
The suits trying to out-suit each other.
The girls trying to out-pretty each other.
The influencers selling lies they can’t even afford to believe in.
Everyone fighting to be king of a sandcastle that the tide’s already coming for.
And here’s where it gets dangerous—
when you stop playing their game,
they call you crazy.
They say you’ve lost touch.
But the truth is, you’ve finally found it.
Touch. Vision. Sanity.
You can still play, sure.
Buy the toys. Drive the fast thing. Wear the nice watch.
But know what it is.
Know it’s not real.
It’s theater.
You’re wearing a costume, not becoming it.
Because the only thing real is what’s inside.
Your will. Your fire. Your silence.
That thing that speaks to you at night when no one’s around.
The rest is set design.
So play the game—
hell, win the damn thing if you want.
But don’t be fooled.
The toys are fun,
but they are not the point.
The point is how you play.
How you walk through this mad circus
with clarity, with fire,
and a grin that says:
“I know it’s all pretend.
And I’m still here.
Playing better than all of you.”