Success through Failure

I haven’t got a clue how they’re doing it. It seems as though it’s completely natural to them, those young lads and women surrounding me from every possible direction. Most of them seem to be interacting with one another in between breaths – others are scouring for possible prey, or are giving off signals that suggest the need of being eaten; everything is in perfect harmony, if it weren’t for me ruining everyone’s appetite.

Our conversation is nearing its pointless apex; the time has come to put our money where our mouths are. Almost an entire hour has gone by since I first addressed the subject of relationships – and although a poetic kind of realism managed to slip through here and there, most of our conversation will be long forgotten within the next few hours. Most of it will be replaced by memories of rancid cheeseburgers, stale beer and sweaty hips hidden underneath short skirts.

As the magic washes off of our initial dialogue, small drops of magic are falling from our mouths onto the wooden floor, in turn creating a wonderful kind of detonation with millions of impossibly-small remnants ricocheting onto and off of walls, ceilings and drinking glasses; some of them eventually eating their way through gaps in between the molecules that hold this wretched café’s walls together, while others still are landing onto bits of human flesh such as the uncovered shoulders of an Italian exchange student or a strip of meat located halfway between a local girl’s cheeky left cheek and her rather wobbly chin.

My new-found friend is going in to reclaim his part of the magic; immediately, scepticism is making way for a cheap kind of smile, reflecting one’s relief over the acknowledgement of one’s existence in any way conceivable. To suit aforementioned smile, there’s the kind of conversation material you’ll only find within a specific time frame, somewhere near or during weekends; people are basically returning to their most basic of forms… while, at the same time, superseding their daily selves by trying to shed off the plumpy shell of a body, instead summarizing the entire situation into the ultimate cliché-laden sentence or by interpreting such a string of words on a binary basis. A man will either succeed or fail, and this almost entirely through the use of his voice: bodily appearance suddenly becomes a negligible factor, as does the level of intelligence – such otherwise incredibly important features see themselves subjected to a few simple nouns and verbs.

This ought to be my terrain: I’m usually pretty good with words, unafraid of approaching people in general, or women specifically. But tonight, I’ll have to deal with two of my arch enemies: a limited amount of manoeuvring space and very, very loud music. Let me be clear: I love playing music at insanely-loud levels as long as my objective lays within listening, manipulating or even composing it; I don’t care much for it whenever it’s trying to outshout or outplay me, though. What’s more, I’ll have to overcome my indifference towards persons speaking in platitudes – there’s no way of telling friend from foe in this kind of setting. And so, everyone and everything suddenly oozes hostility, mistaking my doubts for arrogance or even cowardice.

Not so much for the guy to the left of me, my former-fellow-philosopher now-turned-womaniser; he actually has the guts to turn words into deeds, catching the aforementioned magical ricocheting bullet between his teeth before moving in for the kill. I get to watch the usual mind games from only a short distance – it’s quite fascinating to read an entire novel through the eyes of a complete stranger. No, she doesn’t seem particularly interested; perhaps she simply doesn’t understand our mutual lack of subtleness. In fact, she literally failed to understand most of anything being said, period. She’s the Italian exchange student I thought to have been made-up just minutes ago.

My buddy doesn’t suffer under his defeat; it actually liberates him, making the guy spin in circles across our little arena, his eyes absorbing supposedly-lost rays of magic through glasses of cold beer and glasses of cold Italian exchange students. I ought to give it a whirl too, he suggests. And so I do.

I’m not sure why I picked her out of a crowd of dozens – hundreds, so it would appear. It’s probably geographical convenience, as she’s standing only a few feet away from the wall against which I’m leaning. She kind of looks like that silly girl from “American Pie”, the one from “band camp” so to speak; her nose seems to have jumped for the sky sometime at midnight, only to be left there as some sort of warning to little children, so as not to make their noses do the same. It’s as if her physical imperfection is drawing myself nearer to her inner soul, which undoubtedly fully compensates for a simple futility like a piglet’s nose. And surely, she’ll think the same of me in return.

“Hi. I’m bored. Care to meet?”

The music pounds on as I’m reading the novel within her eyes. Right off the bat, things don’t look particularly hopeful for any of the characters involved. The magic has gone before it even had a chance to work its way through the crowd, so as to embrace this particular odd couple through the stilted introduction of an otherwise enjoyable story. Alas, Chapter One is simultaneously going to act as this book’s Epilogue.

“Not really.”

And that’s that. I borrow a few lines from my suave friend and decide to leave on my accord. Totally not worth it. And totally-impossible to make her change her or my mind. The music goes on to resonate this total failure in between the bar and a tall window to the right of me. I see others making the same mistakes but fail to understand the point behind it all.

“There’s no point,” explains my companion. Our previous session of amateur analyses regarding the invisible lines between man and woman seems like ages ago; a total waste, to boot. But that’s only half the truth, only partly a lie: at least I gained a friend while being spared the humiliation of a senseless romance between a clueless drone and a piglet-nosed understudy. At least I was able to enjoy the sight of other people enjoying themselves, without feeling all too bitter about it.

“Your time will come.” The night has passed, blending into the ugliness that is the confused awakening of a new day. Everything reeks of uselessness and repetition; all is cold and trying to shed off a thin layer of frost while despising the resulting drops of ice-cold water. My buddy and me, we’re left with one another until the first train leaves, an hour from now. He just told me to drop the negativity: my time will come, after all. It won’t, but that’s okay. Acceptance is part of the process; projection is quite an amusing alternative. Heck, who knows – perhaps I’ll end up caring for my new-found friends enough to put myself into their shoes, resulting in some sort of placebo kind of relationship. I wouldn’t recognize from a mile away – even amidst the eerie silence of a sleeping city, I can hear the war drums and their pounding – a loud kind of music, nearing from within.

All of you should be commended for your courage. I wouldn’t want to meet me, neither.

2 Responses to “Success through Failure”

  1. Hello this post is nice and good. Can you reply me any related articles?

  2. Wow I have read your article and by the way I found you website on Google and I think after I read several post on you website especially this one I have my own opinion about what should I comment on the next hang out with my friends, maybe tonight I will tell my familyabout this one and get debate.

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