I Lost My Character in the Animal Carnival—And Found Myself in the Quiet Between Spins

I didn’t come here for luck.

I came because the machines felt too loud—the algorithms, the RTPs, the flashing carrots of ‘Joyful Glory’—all screaming in neon colors while my hands shook.

I used to think games were designed to distract us.

But then—I sat alone on a midnight bench in Brooklyn, scrolling through an anonymous forum post:

‘This hit me harder than I expected.’

It wasn’t a win.

It was a rabbit—slate-blue fur dusted with starlight—waiting at the edge of a carousel that had no buttons left.

No jackpot. No leaderboard. Just her eyes—and mine—in perfect sync.

They call it ‘animal carnival.’

I call it grief turned gentle.

The game didn’t give me coins.

It gave me silence between spins—the kind that doesn’t need to be earned.

My father taught me rhythm from German clocks. My mother taught me stillness from African drums. Together—they made this place sacred—not an arcade, but a sanctuary where even algorithms breathe softly.

I stopped chasing wins when I realized: some endings aren’t failures—they’re invitations.

And now? i return here—not to play—but to remember how quiet can heal you if you let it.