Failing has a strange depth. I wish you knew how it felt. It's like growing up too fast, dying too young, and disappearing too quickly. As if someone took away your dreams, and suddenly you stopped believing in miracles. You're not giving up, but the direction has changed, radically. You see people around you, and it does not seem like they've found the same issue- and perhaps they'll never will. It's hard not to envy them. You could believe in renewal, change, and aspiration, but you simultaneously know that they do not last. You could change countries, date again, and figure out what's the missing piece of yourself you were so daring to find, but you know that everywhere you'll go, the same issue will come up again. You could go for the fast high, the quick fix, you could get into drugs, flirt with every new potential prey, sleep little, write every day, feel a little bit like a rockstar, and call this a life, or you could isolate, reflect, drowned into a sadness that at least feel like a real mirroring of your life. Failing has a strange depth. It's a static one. You'll drown if stuck in quicksand if you try to get away too fast. So you're staying there, patiently waiting to see what can be found. In the meantime, you'll hear others, talking about the future, about their hope for a love that, this time, will be final, about their quest, about their drive to live, fuck, and die, and yes, they're showing you all the possible butterflies, and yes, I fucking see them too, but I also know that they're soon about to die. Failing has a strange depth. Failing once is a small and secretive tale, it is one that we keep for ourselves because, who knows, it could be bad luck, it could be the other, it could be the weather, it could be... Failing a second, a third, and even more, have the taste of a slow and bitter realization of the real. But trust me, it's easier to fail alone. When you fall with others, you not only have to endure the grieving and the passing of those wounds, but you simultaneously have to take care of others. While, on paper, it does not sound too bad, the presence of another being in your crumbling world engraves these experiences into the mold of your identity. You can try to move on, but someone will always know about you, someone will always remember that. And when you fall asleep next to a new stranger, you can always tell yourself lies, but someone out there will always recall, and in some ways, their knowledge is part of the composting in this universe. It forever remains. Failing has a strange depth. I wish you knew how it felt. You cannot unsee it. It's this annoying tattoo someone else drew for you and which you thought you were not fully responsible for. One day you wake up and it's all over your body. It's this word you were only using a few times in a year that now is stuck in your repertoire and without you even noticing, became your entire mantra. It's the story you thought you'd never tell, it's the story of others, it's the tale of those of wait, who claim to be the victims, it's the poetry of those who die. Now it's yours too, and there are no places where you can go where you'll be able to hide.