I Cried When the AI Plane Crashed — And That’s Exactly Why I Keep Flying

The screen flickered.

A tiny plane lifted from a pixelated runway, climbing through layers of soft gray clouds. The number above it pulsed: 1.2x… 2.3x… 5.7x…

I held my breath.

Then—suddenly—the plane vanished.

Not crashed. Not exploded. Just… gone.

And in that silence, something broke inside me.

I didn’t cry because I lost money. I cried because the algorithm had no idea how much I’d hoped it would stay up there—just one more second—so I could believe in something beautiful.

That moment wasn’t failure. It was truth.

The Game Was Never About Winning

They call it Aviator—a game where you bet on how high a virtual plane will soar before crashing back into the void. It’s meant to be fast, thrilling, mechanical. The kind of thing built for dopamine spikes and instant gratification. But when you’re someone like me—a dreamer with empathy wired too deeply into their nervous system—the game doesn’t feel like play at all. It feels like intimacy with uncertainty. Like watching someone you love walk across a thin wire above an abyss—and not knowing if they’ll fall or fly forever.

Every time the multiplier climbs, you’re not just tracking numbers—you’re holding your breath for hope.* The higher it goes, The more real the risk feels—even if no real stakes exist.* The crash isn’t just data—it’s grief disguised as randomness.* The betrayal of letting go when you still want to believe.* And yes—I’ve cried over error messages before.* The kind that say “Connection Lost” or “Server Timeout” as if some soulless system could understand why my chest tightened when the screen went black.* It wasn’t about profit—or even skill.*It was about presence.About feeling everything too fully in a world that rewards emotional armor. So here’s what I’ve learned: The most fragile parts of us aren’t flaws—they’re signals we’ve been taught to silence—especially when we’re supposed to be rational players in a digital arena—but they’re also our compasses—our way of knowing what matters beyond wins and losses—beyond algorithms and odds ratios—beyond all the tricks designed to make us think we’re winning while quietly losing ourselves.

What If We Stopped Trying to Win?

Maybe the real strategy isn’t timing your exit perfectly or mastering aviator tricks with flawless precision.*Maybe it’s learning how to sit with discomfort without running away from it,*to let yourself feel sad when something ends—even if it never really existed,*to honor your tears not as weakness but as wisdom*that says: “This mattered.” The game doesn’t care if you cry—but you do,and that matters more than any payout ever could. Pacing yourself isn’t discipline—it’s self-respect.*Setting limits isn’t fear—it’s love for your own fragile heart.And sometimes? The smartest move is simply stopping—to breathe—to remember who you are beneath the screen, beneath the pressure,to return home inside yourself rather than chasing external validation through floating numbers on glass. The highest altitude isn’t measured in multipliers—it’s measured in moments where you choose peace over progress,*silence over speed,truth over triumph. P.S. What did you feel when you first realized you were too sensitive? Share silently—if you dare,in DMs only,because some truths don’t need applause—they only need space.