But to be honest... I always thought it makes my life more brilliant.
I have seen the carnival in Venice, the sky alight with fireworks, the streets alive with acrobats and teeming with masked spectators, the red embroidery on my coat reflecting some of the light, while the black cloth swallows the rest.
I felt the hot Simoom on my skin, watched the sand move in waves, like an ocean, just with more time at hand. The blinding light on the crystalline sand made it almost impossible to see where my next step would lead me. But only almost.
I watched the moon rise - white on pitch black - over snowy mountains, watched my shadow wander - pitch black on white - with me.
I saw the streams of green travel the sky, like liquid fire, like life itself, saw the Aurora Borealis dance.
I saw the sun rise over the edge of the world, watched the stars vanish one by one, till only the red glow of a far away sign of life prevailed.
And I watched the same bright sun turn darkness to light in a single second, watched from the highest platform of a tower reaching beyond the stratosphere, far above the blastline, far above the last shred of inhabitable lands.
I wandered through a town haunted by its fragmented and fractured architecture. Those mixtures of new and old, of crooked and straight, of giant slabs of stone and frail and colourful decorations giving it a heart and a soul, turning it into a good place to traverse through on your journey.
There was that one valley of wind and colour, dyed banners flapping in the breeze. They made it seem as if they were playing with the hundreds of white birds, filling the silence with music with nothing else but their dance. The foreign heartbeat of my travel companion giving it all a rhythm one will never forget.
I saw the night glow of a forest, each living creature a shard of light and life and magic, a piece of a gigantic canvas, illuminating the many paths not with the light but with the absence of it, turning the places you can set your feet into black ribbons.
I stood on a coast, waited, watched how the rain turned leather and metal of armor and weapon dark, while the waves crashed on the stony beach, heard the rumble of pebbles and the roaring of the storm. And above it all the beating of giant wings, lightning and thunder and rage, bearing down on me.
I navigated labyrinths of ice, all sharp edges and crystalline wonder. Beautiful to behold and deadly, only inhabited by giant white craps, small fish and sentient crystals who sang of times long past.
I roamed the halls of castles, where you can never trust your senses and every step will be filled with more illusions and wonders.
I made many wonderful memories.
But I was told many times how those memories are fake, how they are worthless because they are not real. Because games and books are not real. Because stories are just stories. And not real.
I was told just as many times that all the "real" memories I have are fake too, that I remember everything incorrectly, that I just misunderstood and nothing happened the way I recall, that everything I remember is a twisted version of reality, all created by myself to make it seem that I'm a victim. In reality it was always my fault.
In a life, where everything you remember is fake, a fantasy, a bad dream, twisted in one way or the other and an illusion, "reality" does not matter that much anymore. So, I guess in the end it is my choice which memories I want to treasure.
And which will just be considered unworthy to be remembered.
(and happy game guessing