The comparatively complete failure.

That feeling of being a fucking failure. To realize that nothing turned out to be as you thought it should, and you’re questioning your ability to … to be good at anything at all. And at the same time blame yourself for whining about it. That feeling.

Like when you throw off the bowlines and sail away from the safe harbor, letting go of social safety, old habits, financial security, with no clear goals but to explore, dream and discover, with only a vague idea of direction.

Just because you want the challenge, just because you want to dare, to prove that it’s possible, and because you’ve got a feeling of not having really lived your one life. Until now.

And everything seems quite right and fairly fine.

Until you suddenly realize it’s a bit lonely, and although you try hard to think of someone you know who’s done something similar, you can’t, and the people around you seems to be either admiring your courage, or blaming you for just being stupid and irresponsible. Except for all of those who, of course, doesn’t give a shit.

But still, everything seems quite right and fairly fine.

Except that nothing goes as planned. You think about the thinkable until unthinkable things happens and takes your focus away, and you weren’t prepared for this – one never is – and the unthinkabilities drains your energy, for if there is one time when you need security, stability and routines to lean on, it’s when the unthinkable happens, and instead of doing all that you have planned, you only take care of the basics of life, basics governed not by logic and plannes, but by intuition and emotional presence.

And that already vague idea of direction loses momentum, and suddenly you’ve got all time and place in the world for thoughts, ruminations, contemplations, and it’s hard to gain speed again, because you suddenly can’t decide whether that vague idea of direction is applicable anymore or not.

So you look around, and your attempts to muddle along and to hang on to some kind of reality and meaning doesn’t make very much difference, since you’re no longer sure of what the so called reality is supposed to be like. Or what really matters.

And you hope that the energy and the money will last until you come up with a clue of which way to go. Or until you no longer care.

And you accept. Give up. Reconsider.

And realize that the time you have been given lately, with emotional presence, thoughts and comparative failures, made room for a kind of emptiness. An emptiness that holds an inner peace right in the middle of chaos, a peace and a lifeblood that you’re not used to, that can enhance life in ways that you don’t really know how to handle. Yet.

That feeling.

About blogbypa

Swedish writer, voice over-artist and photographer who practises reflexology. Would like to change the world, but settles with a wish to bring a thought, a sense or even make someone feel better, if only for a while. Believes in the the inward and outward human force. Works out, run in woods, meditate and practise qigong. Likes to find another way. Blogs about life, neither more nor less. Or both. About love and stupidity, death and nudity, lies and wise men in trees. Questions habits and patterns, traditions and people’s disability to stick to the truth. Wants to write with love. Or with anger. And often with a twinkle. But without self-pity or cant. Decorates the discourses with Iphone-pics. It’s just a hang-up. If you’re interested in the real pictures, please visit View all posts by blogbypa

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