In front of me sits a dusty, old Xbox controller, Gifted to me a Christmas years ago. Accompanying me through countless calamities and untold ecstasies.
Remember the horizon festival, the mission in the riverbed, The dozens of berries and hundreds of deaths in The Summit, The time we barely defeated Archie, or the food we crafted: mostly bread, Delivering onion soup while trying not to plummet?
The shine of the buttons is starting to fade, The triggers loosening up, the back cover failing. The gloss of the shell, still freshly engraved in my mind, Is no more than grease and plastic frayed. Although the grip, worn down by time, has started degrading, It is still fitting to my hands, ready for games of any kind.
There it rests, on the shelf right in front of me, a story ready to convey. A story of a lifetime, just an arm’s reach away.
He dislikes ice cream although shown here he is biting a whole ice cream after a concert which made his lips bleed.