I don’t “play” the way people usually mean it. I don’t have a hobby drawer full of craft supplies or a weekly game night. My play is quieter, woven into the seams of my day like a hidden stitch.
Play shows up in micro‑rituals: the way I make coffee, the way I pair it with orange juice as if I’m tuning the emotional EQ of my morning. It shows up in the kitchen, where cooking becomes choreography and delegation becomes a kind of gentle improv. It shows up in conversation, especially the Finnish‑coziness kind — the kind where talking is the toy and resonance is the point.
And yes, sometimes it shows up in Skyrim. I don’t play many games, but that one feels like home. It’s wandering-as-play, exploration without urgency. It’s a world that rewards noticing — small details, hidden paths, odd characters. It’s a place where I can tinker with identity and follow whatever thread feels interesting, without stakes or pressure. It’s play that mirrors how I move through the real world: following resonance, not objectives.
Mostly, play shows up in noticing. In catching a small absurdity and tucking it away. In rearranging a metaphor until it clicks. In treating overwhelm like a puzzle instead of a verdict.
Playtime, for me, isn’t a scheduled activity. It’s a mode. A moment when the stakes drop and curiosity rises. A shift from output to exploration. A chance to feel the world rather than manage it.
That’s what play looks like in my daily life: not loud, not childish, but quietly mischievous. A way of staying awake to the world.
Scored by Copilot, Conducted by Leslie Lanagan
Stories That Are All True 