I’ve lost my love for gaming. Not entirely sure where or when or how I lost it. It was a pastime that I always felt guilty about. I sat on the couch for hours at a time playing Tomb Raider, watching a pixelated Lara Croft living out a life of adventure and intrigue. It was hard to relate to her. To it. It wasn’t real. It was a game of course. A distraction.
But maybe she was trying to connect with me through the digital dimension, whispering through the screen in her British accent:
Charity, get off your ass. Climb crumbling buildings, and scale cliff walls, and jump out of high-speed boats, and carry a pickaxe, and shoot crossbows at wolves, and wear booty shorts, and let your cleavage hang out, and love on adventure, and scream at the mountains, and karate-chop ninjas, and leave daintiness at the door. Cheerio.
It sounds like a metaphor for life but because I know Lara (and all of those hours of gameplay afford me the luxury to say I do) she wouldn’t have meant any of that figuratively. She would’ve done all of those things literally, and then some, in one breath.
Looking back on it now, gaming wasn’t my guilty pleasure.