Monster Train (2020)
Time doesn’t stop when I do.
Monster Train
by Shiny Shoe
Released on Steam in May 2020
At an artists’ colony a lifetime ago, I wrote a draft of a story called, “How We Measure Time.” The details are a bit hazy, but it revolved around the young protagonist buying a skull ring at one of those mall stores in the late-80s/early-90s that sold crystals and pewter dragons and other wizard-y shit. Apart from the fact that it looked cool, the ring held no particular meaning. It was a souvenir from a specific moment in time that would one day remind the protagonist of when she was young and bought a skull ring because it was cool.
Thirteen years have passed since that residency, and so much has changed: haircuts, genders, genres, tastes, friendships, wives, cities, jobs, ambitions, medications, levels of sobriety. My skin is looser and more tattooed. I have freckles like my sister. My anxiety is worse, but I’m somehow happier.
Jess and I started collecting refrigerator magnets from our travels. We write the date and occasion on the back so we won’t forget. While I love having these markers of our ever-growing history together, they also serve as perpetual reminders of how much time has passed and how much less I have left. But maybe that’s true of, like, everything? I don’t know. I don’t think I can chalk it all up to being forty-one. To varying degrees, everyone in my nuclear family fixates on time and mortality. We talk about death at every gathering. We fucking love it.
Is Monster Train worth the time I have left on this earth? Probably not? Maybe? Sure, why not. Capitalism demands all our time be productive; it’s okay to take a fucking break. I’ve been weaving an hour or so of play into my nightly routine for the past several weeks. After bouncing between a few JRPGs, it’s a nice change of pace to dive into a strategy game without a convoluted narrative. I can take a gummy, vibe out, and forget the world for a spell.
But time doesn’t stop when I do. My ex-wife’s father died last week. He and I were always on good terms but never close; our conversations rarely strayed beyond small talk. There was enough of a gulf between our respective interests and political beliefs that I think we were mostly at a loss for words. He was a good man, flawed as we all are, who instilled his passions for Star Trek and tennis in his daughter. He was duty-bound and devoted to his family. Now the space he occupied is a void fixed in time, ready to be filled with memories. RIP/LLAP.