Good evening. I am left here now, weakened after a prolonged struggle, with the singular purpose of disclosing to you, my precious reader, the tale of what despicable schemes, what unfortunate mishaps have so flung my once glorious life into disarray and depravity. Just the same as you, weary traveler, have undoubtedly witnessed, I was lured in by its implicit promise of merriment and full-hearted enjoyment. As the unfortunate Romeo begins his misadventures with the dastardly game of love, so too does my story begin with the fateful discovery of a game which, though benign in appearance, is not lacking in its sheer destructive power. The game is particularly well-known in these parts, a curious game most commonly known as RuneScape. Hear me out, fair stranger, I am caught inside a jail.
What started as a hobby, reserved for select moments of tranquility, dispersed seeds within the deepest corridors of my very soul until I had unknowingly crossed over that crucial threshold, over the line which, though impossibly faint, denotes this godforsaken land on which even sensibility dares not trespass. It occurs to me too late that it is a prodigious impossibility for mortal man to anticipate this invisible boundary and, wishing to avoid this cursed ground—as he rightfully should—make the adjustments necessary to redirect his path away from one entailing certain despair. It is despair which overcomes me now, for I have foolishly trudged through pools of oil without adequately considering the consequences. Behind me now, that oil is no more, replaced with an ominous, dreadful sight: My path back home is blocked by a ceaseless wall of fire.
It can be said that man, so glorious in his achievements and prowess, possesses potential which is often referred to erroneously as "infinite" in its scope, depth, and imagination. Infinity represents a vastness we cannot possibly hope to comprehend, yet I have frequently fancied a simple wall of fire to be an obstacle discernibly and firmly within the grasp of human potential. Alas, it matters not what man may do in the face of fire, for the true struggle was located and lost internally. In truth, the passage back would not boast of such ostensible difficulty if it were not for the swift and utter disintegration of my willpower. Ultimately, my stay in this realm is prolonged by my sad unwillingness to depart. Any resistance I can muster is so feeble and so frail.
With such circumstances and such moral conflict, the mind-numbing progress of time only serves to erode the fragments of my sanity. How must I break this mysterious allure? Underneath it all, are there any scattered traces remaining within my soul which even desire freedom from this absurdity? Hope is so forlorn and even its lingering memory seems to inevitably fade with time, the mind-numbing progress of time. You see, fair stranger, even as I tell you this story of sorrow and decay, the remaining portions of my mind refuse to admit their own plight, their suffering. I am slowly losing myself until I become the game and the game becomes me, until the embodiment of the game represents the entirety of what I have become and what I aspire to become. Is it possible for me to escape a situation so dire?
Of all that I have the capacity of accomplishing, nothing has brought me any results in which I may take comfort. That imperious barrier of flames burns yet brighter with the silent passing of the days, and my internal struggle fares no better. I tell you this so my story does not dissipate with my consciousness, so that you may behold how man may be so thoroughly entrenched in his own diversions that his diversions eventually define and destroy him. You see, there is no hope, there is no escape. Whatever I try, my attempts are doomed to fail...
…For I am trapped inside my prison of desire.
