I'm not a gambling addict—I just fear stopping: A quiet meditation on the rhythm of mahjong and the weight of stillness

The Click of Tiles

I used to think mahjong was noise—a chaotic rush of neon lights and spinning reels. But sitting in my East London flat at midnight, listening to my mother’s old tiles being shuffled by hand, I realized: this isn’t addiction. It’s anatomy. Each tile’s tap is a breath. Each pause is a question: ‘Why do we keep spinning when we know we won’t win?’

The Weight of Stillness

The ‘golden tile’ doesn’t glow because it pays out—it glows because it pauses. In high-volatility modes, players chase multipliers like desperate children chasing fireworks. But in low-fluctuation play? That’s where the soul sits. I’ve watched women—mothers, artists, quiet thinkers—walk away from their screens not to win… but to remember why they started.

The Ritual of Silence

My father taught me jazz at midnight cafés—not slots—and how silence holds more value than sound. Mahjong isn’t a game designed for dopamine; it’s an ancient ritual wrapped in wood grain and wind chimes. When you collect bamboo tiles until full? You’re not accumulating rewards—you’re collecting moments.

Why We Stop Before We Break

Rational play isn’t about budgets—it’s about boundaries. My grandmother said: ‘If you can hear your own breath between spins, you already won.’ So I stopped betting coins—and started writing this down.

For you—who reads this at midnight—the real prize wasn’t the payout. It was being seen.