Too many times I have cried over spilled wine. Pushed to the limits of what I can handle and dangled over the edge, somehow the denial of simple comforts feels like too much. This is the plight of the doer. The valley of those who put themselves in the way of the world. Failure and rejection are always outcomes. They have just as much of a chance to win out as success. But for that reason, you don’t expect all the slots to come back lemons.
This is simply the valley of the tryhard. An unsavory destination, but not an all out unexpected one. And still, when you’re already below sea level and the rains come, it’s hard not to curse the small favor that showed up to pelt you while you were down. The famine of the optimist, leaving her fields devoid and barren, is never giving it a rest. Never slowing her pace to appreciate the lurching of her path, the rises and the dips. And so mountains melt quickly into craters, the highs are high and the lows are low. And right now my lows are low, and it’s raining.
What other evidence do I need the universe to supply that I just can’t get things right? When all the odds seem stacked against me and whole scores of endeavors seem foolhardy, what more can it lay at my feet to show me that the way I walk through the world is little more than clumsy? These are questions I choose not to answer. I cover my eyes from the sheeting rain and I walk on in search of shelter. I’ll find it. And the clouds will part. And the way will incline. And one day, my slots will be triple cherries again. And for now, I’ll keep crying over spilled wine until they do.