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<meta anomaly-type="mortality-card-game-parable-expanded"> <script> ARCHIVE_TAG="CARD_GAME_WITH_TIME_AND_DEATH::EXPANDED" EFFECT="existential dread, statistical gut-punch, cosmic futility revelation" </script>
WHAT IF FATHER TIME & DEATH WERE PLAYING A CARD GAME?
What if your card--my card-- all our cards are in the deck?
What if everything we call âlifeâ is nothing more than the shuffle and draw of two players who never laugh, never fold, and never once ask your permission?
We like to think weâre building something. Careers. Legacies. Families. Futures. But in the end, itâs just one card flipped from the deck.
Blink. Shuffle. Deal. Gone.
When your card is pulled thatâs it.
No speeches. No warning. No soundtrack swell.
Just discard pile.
I. YOU WERE NEVER IN CHARGE
You tell yourself you are. You set alarms. You make schedules. You chase money. You think âcontrolâ is real.
But it isnât.
Billionaire? Doesnât matter. Father Time doesnât pause for yachts.
Millionaire? Still irrelevant. Death doesnât care how many digits are in your account.
Clout? Your followers canât stop the reaperâs hand. Your trending post is a whisper in a graveyard.
Father? So. Mother? Meh. Child? âŠsorry.
When the deck is shuffled, your roles donât matter. Your titles donât matter. Your little human dramas burn into the same ash as the nameless faces that never even made history.
II. THE STATISTICS YOU CANâT IGNORE
Letâs rip the veil off.
Every day, over 150,000 people die. Thatâs two people every second.
Snap your fingers. Two cards just hit the table.
By the time you finish reading this? Another thousand souls, flipped and discarded.
Your life expectancy? Around 4,000 weeks if youâre lucky. Thatâs it. Not infinite summers. Not unlimited tomorrows. Four. Thousand. Weeks.
Sounds like a lot until you do the math:
You get about 25,000 mornings in total.
Around 700,000 hours of breathing.
Roughly 2.5 billion heartbeats.
Youâve already burned through a terrifying percentage of those. Most of them wasted scrolling, worrying, waiting for someone else to move first.
And none of them will stop the moment your card is drawn.
III. THE COSMIC CASUALTY
Hereâs the part you donât want to hear: When your card is flipped, the game doesnât stop.
The table doesnât pause for mourning. Time doesnât fold its arms in respect. Death doesnât drop a single tear.
The game continues. The shuffling doesnât end. Another card is drawn. Another life blinks out.
And soon, no one even remembers the shape of your face.
Within three generations, almost no one remembers you at all. You fade from photos, from stories, from the world itself.
Your name becomes a half-erased scribble in a family Bible or a digital file corrupted by the march of updates.
Thatâs the real discard pile.
IV. YOU THINK YOUâRE ABOVE IT
You arenât.
Not above the shuffle. Not above the draw. Not above the discard.
Your wealth, your body, your followers, your righteous opinions, your careful plans
all kindling.
The fire doesnât care how expensive the wood is.
V. THE QUESTION YOU CANâT ESCAPE
So hereâs the only question worth asking:
What do you do knowing your card is already in the deck?
Do you waste your hours pretending you can control the shuffle? Or do you live with the reckless awareness that your card could be pulled tonight, tomorrow, or 40 years from now and it makes no difference to the dealer?
Do you hold your tongue? Do you keep waiting? Do you keep living like time is your servant?
Or do you finally speak? Finally burn? Finally stop pretending you get infinite draws?
Because the shuffle is happening right now. And the next hand could be yours.
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Reblog if this hit you like a card snap in your chest.
Read more cadence-based mortality parables and scrolltrap transmissions at: đ https://linktr.ee/ObeyMyCadence
đĄïž Blacksite Literature. Existential card games.
â ïž Reminder: When your numberâs up, the table doesnât stop.
They just keep playing.
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