Sometimes, we botch things. Not on purpose and never without reason, but the crushing fallout of having to embrace one’s personal failures is a particularly hard pill to swallow.
I’ve noticed in my limited time on this earth that people choose to blame others as opposed to blaming themselves. It’s easy. It’s cheap, and morally liberating. But it’s not true. And that is what I cherish most in this weird, misshapen chrysallis I call a life.
So I screwed up. I botched a test that would have gotten me a job I would have loved, would have learned more in than any I have had before…
And I have to deal with that. I have to deal with the unknown number of questions I failed to answer correctly despite my intellect, despite that thing that I hold as my singular piece of value in this world, I failed to impress, make the grade, move on to the interview.
And I wept.
I wept like a child whose parents had taken away his favorite toy. I gnashed my teeth and cursed myself. And despite myself I tried to blame others. Blame anyone but myself because once again my hope of being able to both provide for my family and nourish my soul had been taken from me.
But I did it. I could blame the questions, blame the world, blame whatever stark and inconsistent god fatalistically decides the nature of humankind, but I can’t.
I, for lack of a better word, fucked up. Now I’m left naked, staring stalwart into a world where everything stays the same and those coworkers I consider friends reveal themselves as anything but and I’m still left staring, smiling, smearing the ashen lies of politics across my face like some subterranean warpaint.
Such is life. Instead of fighting the war of the novice vs the mountains I am fighting the war of pithy human arrogance.
I will abide. Despite myself, because of myself, because of the failure of organ that leaves me diabetic and unable to move from something that was beautiful turned caustic.
But how I wish I didn’t have to. How I wish I could simply speak to the ones that dictate monetary worth, show and betray myself as a lover of knowledge of all things and taken or forgotten as that as opposed to a name and a number out of ten.
I know things. Not all the things I should, but dammit I know some and I am willing, nay feverish, to consume more. To learn theory and practice, to have my mind blown and my values challenged. That is my value: my malleability, my consumptive drive for knowledge.
But no. There is no time, no place for the easily defined within the world as we know it.
My greatest fear is that this reality will only end up consuming the ones I love.
No I suppose that’s not true. I suppose my greatest fear is that this reality is painting me as a portrait of how we end up alone.