There comes a moment in every life—whether in the tender years of childhood or in the quiet twilight of our final days—when we are confronted with that profound and inevitable question:
“Do you love your country?”
As a child, I stood confused before it. Why did our schools raise that flag so high every morning? Why did we need a piece of cloth, a symbol, a border, to carve out an identity that divides us from the rest of humanity? And whenever I dared to whisper “yes,” a heavier question would immediately follow, echoing in my young heart:
“But why… why do I love my country?”
Seconds stretched into minutes, minutes into hours, and still, no answer came. The question remained unanswered, floating in a vast, empty space inside me.
I was never truly taught to love my motherland—not with warmth, not with understanding, not with the shared spirit that binds every soul who calls this land home. Because of that, I grew up carrying a quiet dishonor in my chest. I became harsh, distant, and sometimes cruel toward my own people—the very brothers and sisters who walk the same soil, breathe the same air, and dream under the same sky.
Machine Child feels like a chill raising sim with lots of sweet moments if you’re in the mood for something emotional and relaxed. Pragmata is more action-packed sci-fi where you team up with the android girl to shoot stuff and explore
Play Chrono Trigger via emulation! it's a cheap, timeless classic with one of the best stories in gaming that you probably missed on original hardware.
There comes a moment in every life—whether in the tender years of childhood or in the quiet twilight of our final days—when we are confronted with that profound and inevitable question:
“Do you love your country?”
As a child, I stood confused before it. Why did our schools raise that flag so high every morning? Why did we need a piece of cloth, a symbol, a border, to carve out an identity that divides us from the rest of humanity? And whenever I dared to whisper “yes,” a heavier question would immediately follow, echoing in my young heart:
“But why… why do I love my country?”
Seconds stretched into minutes, minutes into hours, and still, no answer came. The question remained unanswered, floating in a vast, empty space inside me.
I was never truly taught to love my motherland—not with warmth, not with understanding, not with the shared spirit that binds every soul who calls this land home. Because of that, I grew up carrying a quiet dishonor in my chest. I became harsh, distant, and sometimes cruel toward my own people—the very brothers and sisters who walk the same soil, breathe the same air, and dream under the same sky.
