#first eden

When you — or rather, the moth — stand at the gates of Eden and decide to go in, accepting that whatever happens will happen, you have no idea what could actually make this journey more complete. You don’t know what will truly give it meaning. At least, I didn’t. And that’s also why I write about the other realms in this post: only through Eden did their significance really fall into place for me.

I felt that the path I had walked — from my very first steps in the sands of the Isle of Dawn to the very top of the Vault of Knowledge — formed a complete whole, and that there was something deeply symbolic about reaching the end of it. I saw the emptiness and calm of the Isle, the joyful and vibrant atmosphere of the Prairie, the mystery of the Forest, the adventurous slopes of the Valley, the dangers of the Wasteland, and the cosmic knowledge of the Vault as one continuous journey.

After the very first steps, it becomes clear that this place is very different — even compared to the Wasteland. The tiny, fragile character is facing real danger here. As I walked through the first section, struggling against rocks and strong winds, I felt confident: okay, I’ve got this, I can do it. Then the door opened, and it immediately became obvious that even greater and more complex dangers awaited us.

I was incredibly lucky that at this point a very caring veteran found me and carried me through the complicated paths ruled by krills. The same thing actually happened during my second Eden run as well, just with another very kind veteran. They got me through safely, but I had no idea where we went, which way we turned, or how the path worked.

In the long corridor that followed, we were able to collect a lot of winged light. A bit less naively, I assumed that something very dangerous was coming next — but that if we got through it, we would complete the game and receive some kind of great reward.

At first, you just have to survive.

That’s what I thought, back then.

My hands and legs were shaking the entire time, my heart was pounding loudly. It was a few days after Christmas, in the middle of the night, before going to sleep — I just wanted to play a little. And then suddenly I was standing in the middle of a storm whose other side I couldn’t see. We had entered the Eye of Eden.

The veteran ran ahead, while the two of us moths lagged behind. I could see that we were supposed to give wings to the poor, petrified figures — but I have to admit, I wanted to keep some for myself. I was selfish. I gave what I could, of course, but as my winged light kept dwindling — and the falling stones took many more — I started to save them, intending to make it through to the other side, to the end, where this horror would finally stop.

I made it roughly to the point where three figures surround a candle. By then I only had six winged light left, no matter how carefully I tried to protect them, and I felt like I wouldn’t make it to the other side. At that point, I felt I needed help — because the veteran and the other moth had disappeared from the area by then (though even then, I didn’t suspect anything yet).

I was playing on a tablet, and I searched on my phone: Where is the exit of Eden?

That’s when I saw the answer under a Reddit post.

It’s true that I probably don’t have an easy relationship with death, and I don’t let go of things easily — I don’t know how to grieve “properly.” But this moment still hit me as a shock.

What came after that is something I still cry over — every single time. I think that if death exists, and it can be this beautiful, then maybe it won’t be so terrifying after all. I wish it were true that once we are freed from our bodies, such a wondrous journey awaits us.

I did what the post said.

I lost them all.

Being introduced to an experience connected to Buddhist rebirth in such a direct, embodied way is simply brilliant — devastating, moving, cathartic. It’s hard to find words for it. What I had been fighting against so desperately just moments earlier suddenly felt inevitable, as if it couldn’t have been any other way. I felt like I had found a truth that applied to my real life as well.

The rebirth and arrival themselves were beautiful too. I truly started crying when the words appeared on the screen:

“The real journey starts here.”

And then I understood that the entire journey from the Isle of Dawn to the Vault of Knowledge is completely meaningless without death at the end. Gathering winged light is meaningless if it doesn’t culminate in giving them away to those who need to be saved. And after my return, I started to see the distant Eye of Eden differently — and I also noticed that it is always in the center when you return to the portals.

Later, Eden became easier to walk, and less painful, less heavy. It gets easier and easier over time. I took these pictures on my fourth visit — because during the first one, my thoughts were clearly not on taking screenshots.

Because it is always there, hovering — no matter what we do. Because we know that whatever happens, the path will always lead back there. Whether you look up from the joyful fields of the Prairie, see it glimmer above the dignified walls of the Coliseum, or stand in Aviary Village — it’s always there, like a quiet, subconscious thought:

everything that happens down here only has meaning if there is also impermanence.

Since my first return from Eden, I often think about the decisions I’ve made in my own life. Am I more understanding toward myself? Or do I search for meaning differently now? These days, I often walk through the world of Sky while observing myself and my emotions — asking why I want to go somewhere, or why I need something at that moment.

It’s true that after my first visit, I didn’t go back for almost a month. The experience was so strong that I felt I wouldn’t be able to endure it again. But then something started to stir inside me. I gathered all the winged light again, and the thought came: maybe I should go back after all.

But later. Next week. On the weekend. Tomorrow — tomorrow I’ll go back. Because I have to.

And then one day I simply woke up knowing: yes, now I’m ready.

I once read this sentence from another player:

Since then, I go every week.

Saturday is Eye of Eden day — the day of letting go and renewal.

“I liked this game before, but I truly fell in love with it after the Eye of Eden.”

That’s exactly what happened to me, too.