Forgot your password?

We just sent you an email, containing instructions for how to reset your password.

Sign in

  • I've long considered my failures...

    Life has a way of hitting you in the gut while sitting and staring at a plate of pale pasta. I let out a yelp of panic in the dining hall in the early evening, the day indistinguishable from the previous. The past few weeks have brought with them a sense of wasted time and failed expectations which have, at this moment, burst over me like the amber drops of a shotgunned beer raining down over the concrete floor of a frat house.

    The result of guilt?

    I admit that I do feel guilty, but I don't see it as a bad thing. Guilt reminds me of my mistakes, and the fact that I resent choices proves to me that I feel remorse. Remorse results in change. I don't mean the kind of regret one has after realizing that the purchase of yet another plate of pale pasta that will end up in the trash, but what one sees when looking out a dark window and seeing nothing but your own, pale face looking back at you. Oh, the people I have disappointed. I have disappointed myself.

    Of course I am left with the choice of feeling sorry for myself and wishing that I will grow old one day and live until the advent of time travel and whisk away to some pivotal moment of life and alter just one footstep and vanish into a future where my shoes are slightly more buffed and the pot roast is a degree or two warmer. Just one step!

    I remember that I told someone this year that one must embrace their shortcomings and use them to their advantage. I was sitting by a fireplace with a half gallon of chocolate milk, leg crossed over my knee and tired.

    Interesting, though, is the sense of renewal that comes with failure. Being knocked off your feet, you are forced to rise again and face the world with a new gait that comes with sore limbs. Can you keep your head high with a sore back? Will you try, considering that it is easy enough to be a nameless figure in a crowd? The trees in a forest have as much individuality as the eyes are willing to give them.

    I'll never know who was on the bottom of the hill that day, but they heard me shout at the clouds. Bring on the trees.
    • Share

    Connected stories:

About

Collections let you gather your favorite stories into shareable groups.

To collect stories, please become a Citizen.

    Copy and paste this embed code into your web page:

    px wide
    px tall
    Send this story to a friend:
    Would you like to send another?

      To retell stories, please .

        Sprouting stories lets you respond with a story of your own — like telling stories ’round a campfire.

        To sprout stories, please .

            Better browser, please.

            To view Cowbird, please use the latest version of Chrome, Safari, Firefox, Opera, or Internet Explorer.