On rules, risk, and choosing to play

I don’t believe in illegal games.
Not because risk doesn’t tempt me—but because winning by deception is a hollow kind of victory.

My game is simple enough to sound boring, and honest enough to be uncomfortable.

I play openly.
Not loudly, not performatively—but visibly.
If something matters to me, I say it.
If something changes, I don’t pretend it hasn’t.

The rules are not traps revealed too late.
They’re stated early, even when they cost me advantage.
Desire should be informed, not cornered.

I don't use silence as leverage.
I don’t confuse distance with depth.
Mystery, to me, is what unfolds naturally—not what’s withheld to maintain control.

Is it safe to play with me?
Safe enough to tell the truth.
Safe enough to want and be wanted without strategy.
Safe enough that either of us can leave—and it still counts as a real game.

I don't aim to win at any cost.
I aim for a game worth staying in.
One where tension leads to contact, not avoidance.
Where both know the risks, and still lean in.

Those are the rules of my life and love:
clarity over cleverness,
choice over conquest
presence over performance.

If you choose to continue, it would be because you want to—
not because you were outplayed.

And that, to me, is the only win that matters.