My life is a succession of failures. Each new failure is a failure built upon previous failures. Before long, past failures advance in time to become future failures, so I become trapped in a room of failure-patterned wallpaper, failure textured carpet and a big sky above me. But to get out of the room would require that I scale the walls, the heights of which seem tantalizingly within my reach. If I get a running start and jump up just right, putting a lot of force into it, then I just might grab hold to the top of the wall. And if I have the strength or the dexterity to pull myself up from there, then I’ll be able to pull myself out and see what is outside of my cell of failure.
But I could fall and hurt myself. Or I could try and make a go of it only to end up frantically dangling my useless legs while the cell operator pushes the button that plays the laugh track sound through the loudspeakers. So I’ll sit on my failure-stained mattress and look up out of the corner of my eye and pretend not to watch as I notice people all around me climbing sheer-faced skyscrapers, thousands of feet above me. I’ll sit here and pretend not to hear the loud mass of screaming cheers that come from the outside, the voices that shout praise and exclamations of amazement to the fearless and powerful climbers. They are not meant for me. Nobody cheers for a person sitting down and watching other climbers. That would be either a mockery or the biggest waste of breath.
The worst fear is a fear of failure. And the worst failure is the failure of not trying.
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