For All The Times I Have Failed

For All The Times I Have Failed

For all the times I have failed myself, I am grateful.


For all the times I have failed myself,

I am grateful.

If my past had contained nothing but great successes,

My future would lack a purpose.

If the angst of my words had never been released from my lips,

My soul would be consumed with an eternal fire.

If the things I have lost had been rediscovered,

My growth would be stunted forever.

If the roads had stayed untraveled,

And the hearts untouched,

I would never have left my mark on this world.

For all the times I have failed myself,

I am grateful.

For without failure,

One cannot experience the purest pleasure,

Of picking themselves up off of the ground,

And putting themselves back together

In the face of all that had broken them.

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Parents, Leash Your Children, Or Don't Take Them To An Art Museum

It is an inappropriate place to take a small child who doesn't even want to be there.

For New Years, my family and I decided to brave the blizzard and travel to Washington D.C to partake in all the culture. As we walked in the Hirshhorn, we were delighted to see that it was desolate, the ice scaring tourists away until the sun rose higher in the sky.

We ascended to the Ai Weiwei exhibit, which stunningly exhibited the faces of human rights activists and pioneers, spelling out their hushed story or heroism through a universal object: Legos. Yes, 10 of these installations were made entirely of our favorite, and most painful, childhood toy.

For any child, even myself, you can’t help but feel the urge to pick them off the floor and build a mini castle. For this one particular little boy, that was his intention. I saw it in his eyes, and he ran toward the art, fists open and ready.

As he (almost) frolicked into the third installation, his father ran and picked him up, setting off the alarm and nearly tumbling himself. After a scolding from the guard, he put his son in the stroller as he protested this decision furiously. I let out a breath of relief, thinking what the outcome would have been if the father had caught the boy one second later.

How fucked would this beautiful installation be by a little boy who wanted to play?

Sure, I am not a parent; I don’t understand the plights of parents and their inability to control their child’s every movement.

No, it was not that parent’s fault.

It was not that child’s fault: how can a child know better?

However, that is the point exactly; children, at such a young age, don’t understand why you can’t touch some things or the consequences of their actions.

I saw so many children on their phones, rolling their eyes at the Rothko that looked like “something I could have made”, and complaining about how busy it was. The art museum is no place for children: it’s for individuals to interpret and breathe abstractly, not a child. Take them to the zoo (animal prison), natural history museum, space museum, anywhere interactive. A child can relate more to a Trex fossil or Elephant or even the universe more than a Pollock. Don’t torture them, or me, for that matter.

If worse comes to worse, and you have to take your child, get them a leash. It seems to work for dogs.

Cover Image Credit: Pexels

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A Million Questions Leftover For My Many Lost Loves

Unanswerable questions to ponder about loves past, present, and future.


How can you claim to love me, yet threaten to leave?

Where do you see your love for me whilst so high up on your pedestal?

Is it possible to love a woman in the midst of her destruction of your own doing?

Have you ever felt the simple joy of existing in my presence, as I did in yours?

Do you know what it's like to be on the brink of losing a lover without knowing why?

Have you tried to convince yourself that it wasn't really over?

Or wanted to take back all you've done to me?

What did you feel when you saw the pain spread across my face?

Does it feel very much like a dream when you picture my face in your mind?

Did you know you would break all your promises as soon as you made them?

When you sought out the perfect woman to replace me, how did it feel to come up empty handed and alone?

Have you ever considered the curious beauty that lies within imperfection?

What makes you think you deserve the perfect specimen of a woman when you are far from perfect yourself?

Weren't you the one who said all of our imperfections are what make us so perfectly perfect?

Why does fear so often rule over our hearts and never courage?

What does it take for a man to fight for a woman who actually wants to be fought for?

How was it so easy to leave after all we've been through?

How was it so easy to inflict the same pain on me that has been inflicted on you?

How was it so easy for you to fall in and out of love with me?

Did you really think it was possible for us to be friends after all of that?

Was I supposed to stand by the sidelines as you searched for another woman?

Why is it that you all pine for the woman who scorn you?

Do you think it's so bad for a woman to finally love you back?

We both said we wish each other the absolute best in our lives, but how could that possibly be true for either of us?

Are you happy that we happened at all?

Where do I stand within your ocean of memories?

Do you remember more than what happened at the very end?

Was it simply not the right time or not the right match?

What does it mean that I deserve better when you continually treated me so poorly?

Do you still remember all the little sweet things I've done for you?

Has any woman ever done them for you since the end of us?

How is your conscience clear following all of your trickery, bullsh*t, and lies?

Can you still think that you're a good person despite all you've done?

How do you come back from that level of vileness?

How could I still love you after all you've done to me?

After all the pain? After all the misery?

How could I still forgive you?

How could I still miss you?

How could I still love you?

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