Heroes of the Storm, The Book Thief, and Feeding One’s Soul.

The world is a big and scary place at times.  Particularly when you feel lonely, or vulnerable.  Particularly when you suffer from agoraphobia.  It can be a very empty, chilling, hollow feeling that accompanies those kinds of thoughts.  It’s those kinds of thoughts and feelings that help drive me deeper into my passion:  gaming.

It’s no surprise I fell in love with Heroes of the Storm.  I wanted a Moba that was more accessible, but not too simple, it had characters I adored, and mechanics that reinforced not only the team concept, but the concept that pushing was good for the team and the game, instead of a necessary risk.  Looking through the skins and heroes, I fell more and more in love with the little touches.   Murky, the murloc’s description being murloc speak.  How every skin had a little tidbit about the alternate universe they came from.  While overpriced, it spoke of polish and charm, which is very odd for an alpha, and now beta to do.

And mostly, it let me enjoy making, finding, and playing with friends.  I found a guild, Chaos Vanguard, who were kind enough to let me play with them.  I made friends outside the game, a sweet lady who goes by Katriel, and many others impressed with games we shared.  I talked my friend Calvin into buying in and playing with me, and we enjoy many games, helping keep my thoughts off aches in my heart and head, that long to be written out.

I recently picked up a title called the Book Thief, by Markus Zusak.  It’s the story of a young orphan, left to a foster family by her sick and impoverished mother.  Of family, of friends, of learning to read, of what is right or wrong in times of crisis and needs, and mostly, how good words and books can feed the soul, when the body and mind suffer.

There’s a lot to take in with this title, and about half of it is heartache.  Perhaps, coming from a very poor family myself, I sympathize a little more with the situations, though not nearly as impoverished as these people.   Though, I still wonder how much I didn’t see or know, because I am not nearly so bright as to easily spot suffering, that my mother didn’t eat, or ate very little so I could have my fill, with seconds, that I didn’t understand weren’t there from the start.  That night time ghost stories in the dark weren’t because it was fun, but because we had to wait till payday to cover the electrical bill.

At times these thoughts make me so furious at myself, for not being more aware or more considerate, for being a waste of space and that can easily translate to how and where I am today, still a waste of space.   At times they make me feel loved and grateful.  At times, sad and mournful.  And sometimes, combinations of the three.  I know the feeding words can give, and I also know the pain.  To say words can’t hurt you is to lie, to convince yourself that physical scars are more important, or deeper than mental, heartfelt ones.  How good intentions can have dire consequences, and how you can get punished for doing and standing up for what is right in your own heart.  And all these thoughts, get echo’d, touch heartstrings, as I listen quietly to the Book Thief, narrated by death, and sometimes I laugh, and sometimes I cry, sometimes I feel empty, and sometimes I feel hope.  And that, my dear readers, is what the best books can do, the books that touch the soul.

I started this blog, to write about my perspective in games, and it’s branched to be my personal outlet, my little cardboard box in the corner.  I write to a world who likely never reads it, and perhaps never will.  One reason I’ve been so quiet is self doubt, who am I to talk about issues, or say that I can speak for transgender people, when obviously I can not.  Nor am I here to say that my opinion and take is necessarily the right one.  When you can’t fill the confidence in what you speak, sometime it’s hard to say it all.

Just remember, time spent wasted, if enjoyed, is not wasted time.  A life spent in thought and with friends, is not a wasted life.  A heart spent empty, is not a wasted heart.  And a little blog, in an imagined corner of a representation of a multiverse, are not wasted words.

Add a Comment

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *