The demurely mouth of a loser leaps to its natural habitat, this soul of mine, this body so short and devoid of legend.
“It is true, my friends, I lost, and I’ll never recover,” I tell the room of my friends, but they are all losers too, and as we all share the same ability to fuck things up at the worst possible time, we all stay together, licking each other’s wounds.
“That is to be expected, and yet it is a sad occasion,” one my friends says, and we hug it out.
The strange sensation of atonement that follows is a ritual that it is very common for ourselves of a low altitude, and then, follows the rite of passage for all losers: to wallow itself into a cocoon of blankets and let the everlasting night cry out our sorrows. That there will be little love to be had, that there will be little hearts pumping, and that no matter the situation, no matter the event, one will fail and then will accomplish very little in the long run.
“But one day,” I say the morning to an audience of decrepit, useless, annoying, obnoxious, beautiful people, “one day I will understand what it is about us that sucks, and plan accordingly. I’ll go where no loser has gone before, beyond.”
“Then you won’t be a loser anymore,” one of my friend says.
Those words stay with me until my dying day. The thought of accomplishment is as sickening as the thought of undercutting oneself in an eternal cycle of undeserving, but that is who I am, and who I am always going to be.
No specialness emerges from me, no talent vomits up from my throat, no mind has been shattered by my presence, there is only a lower, among many losers, swirling around in a life that barely holds, and a clinging that doesn’t stop.
“Even if you try to it end, you will fuck it up, you know why, right? We all know why?” one my friends say, and it makes sense. There is very little in life that has gone correctly, but what is correctly for a loser, is different from what is for normal people. One only wants to breathe in the same vicinity as those who are far luckier and more interesting, and be impregnated by a magnificent, unknown scent.
“But it has to happen. You cannot be a loser forever, right?” I ask to my friends who all nod very smugly and then shake their heads very sadly. The situation goes on for a while and the rest of the day, and the night, and the week, the month, and the year, is spent trying to think of ways of how not to make things worse for ourselves.
Someday, somewhere, somehow, the calling is there, to finally realize what someone truly is not, and when I can finally define myself as who I am not supposed to be, when I can finally grin and bear all injustices, I can turn around and answer. Tell my friends that there is a way out of being burdened with oneself.
“Thank you, we like your words, friend,” one of them says and I look all the losers around me, and the loser in me, and I just think: there must be something else to lose, something that is actually worth losing with dignity.