When we give way to the sadness, to the world’s madness, to self-absorbed feelings of emptiness, to—well—a life that dumps you shitloads of lemons, it is easier to give in, shed tears, and yowl that “all’s failed”. It’s a heady feeling too methinks, to be blowing your nose on a humongous kerchief you’ve absentmindedly chosen for the occasion, choking as fat, salty tears ease you into that wonderful preoccupation of self-pity. I do like tears and in fact require them on a regular basis, releasing them soon as they’ve responded to my roll-call, letting them lubricate my thoughts as they help magnify whatever sad feelings I have on that particular instance.
But this litany isn’t just on tears, but rather, the cause of those salt-ridden trails of anguish. What with the two chief facets that make us human is to experience being both happy and sad, celebrating life’s pleasures has its equivalent emotion of feeling dejection, especially when things go awry or when we muse on things we failed to do—our what ifs, our could’ve beens, that awful turn on the road we’d like to drive back to, if time machines ever do exist.
But lemme say this, I think I’m ready to fall in love with my failures, no matter how dreadful they were. My failures define me now: from them white hairs peering quietly from behind my curls, which tell me that gad, yes, I have aged but have also gained better judgment on how it is to live; to the fine contours tracing crows’ feet ‘round my eyes which thankfully add an intensity to my look as I go tsk-tsking at much younger, louder individuals; they’ve lined my hands with angry, green veins that I will forever claim to be the result of long hours of doing hard work, of doing things right. Yes, my failures define who I am now, those dreadful decisions I’ve made before created this me that you like more now—so, hah, be thankful.
So now, for the rest of this lovely birth month of mine, I will toot horns for all of my life’s failures and thank them for allowing me to strike a neat balance in life—for how can I strive for the better if I don’t realize what I can learn from them? ‘Sides, my failures have been an unending source for inspiration, for musings, for beautiful words strung together to make a few friends teary-eyed, with one admitting to falling in love (ok, I’m not being bashful today) with the way I write.
We fail, make mistakes, err because we’re human—as that damn saying is sayin’—but after we’ve wiped away those tears, as we reach the clearing and see only blue skies ahead, what makes life more bearable is knowing that we can forge ahead and feel stronger as we flash our badges of failures, which I think we have more of anyways. How monotonous life would be if one only had medals of goodness and honor and integrity. Well, ok, ok, I just made falling hard on our butts sound like a better deal, no?
But then again, dontcha worry, for next time a good friend tears up for whatever spilled milk reason, I will comfort her, as I always do, cry even if only to make her feel better. Though secretly, from my heart, I’d be fastening a tiny pin of hope on her, wishing that she too would remember to find beauty in what failure’s taught her.
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Pictured: Candles at our usual bar, then called Niner Ichi Nana
Finally Dee 