Life

I am a failure. A what? A lost cause. For what I want I want some more and wish that I might want and want the rest.

I am a failure.

At what? To be a failure I must fail at something, and something important. A thing I want and want more and then fail at achieving. No one ever fails at nothing. That’s impossible. One can only fail at something.

So. At what something did I fail?

I failed at life? No. That’s stupid. That’s cliché. I cannot have failed at life since yet I live. Life owns me, so I am hers.

I failed at death? No. That’s also stupid. That’s macabre. I cannot have failed at death since I yet live. Life owns me still, so I am hers once again. I still belong to life. I am hers and she is mine.

So. At what did I fail?

I failed at succeeding. I live. I am alive. I look. I see. But I do not do. So I have failed. At the thing at which I grasp and know and believe in. And fail to hold. At that I fail.

For now.

Failure only works at the end. When I am dead. When life gives her best and then gives me on to the rest. The other. The place where success and failure dwell together, unrelenting and eternal.

Then only is my life over. Then only am I success or failure.

For now while I am alive. I am success.

A pale success, but better than failure. Failure is death.

And then there is life.