Much More Interesting This Way

To have failed often and ugly,
thumping that wresting mat in a big way,
face first--

To emerge again and again
from defeat after defeat,
still dripping in the sweat of the sisyphusian challenge,
doomed to repeat--

To emerge from the cocoon
weak muscled,
under tough,
and unable to fly
to new heights
with the rest of the gloriously fluttering butterflies--

To leap through time and space,
like some doomed time traveler,
cursed to a mission of randomness--

To persist at some work,
so great,
so cherished,
even though all evidence screams towards
giving up,
moving on,
doing something much easier--

To fail at first, rather than succeed, makes a much more interesting story.

If I could have chosen, I probably would have wished for ten years of uninterrupted blissfulness:
great job, great love, stable life.

But there would have been no challenge in it. And I wouldn't gotten bored anyway.

No pain, no spice.
The tears in the soup DO make it sweeter and more bitter and much more delicious.

I am envious of my friends who can keep it together from year to year. I seem to have encountered quite a many people who can do it. There offspring grow old, and their shoes wear out, but otherwise all the major constants remain the same.

But not for me.
Every March comes around and I'm looking for work.
If it weren't for the fear of being poor,
it might be fun fun.
If it weren't for the incoveniance of procurring affordable healthcare,
it might even be an Adventure.

But instead it makes me sad.
It makes me feel worthless and a failure.
Everybody can fit in, why not me?

So I long for the other side of the mirror,
which is all happy endings.

But the writer in me,
remembering the Old Chinese Curse,
knows it's much more interesting this way