Is it selfish to want to exist just for the moment? To not leave a "mark on the world"? I rarely have days that I spend doing nothing, but those days stand out in my memory as something incredibly precious. When the snow closed out the exit to that hidden valley and there were no more monsters left to fight, and the small cabin had wood and provisions and a dusty bookshelf... I sat in the sun and read, and drank hot tea, and chewed salted meat. For ten days. 

And I felt like I should be guilty? But I had no choice, and a deep deep part of me thrilled as a burden that always existed was gone, for a moment.

-Journal of the Adventurer Beckett