The Aesthetic of Failure
It’s not what I wanted, but it’s all the more interesting.
Yunior Rivas
Let’s not pretend it doesn’t hurt.
It hurts like hell, every time you think about what you lost or where you fell short. It leaves marks in ways that success never could, lessons we may not ask for but cling to all the same.
The burnt pieces of toast tell stories of miscalculation. The timing was wrong, the heat was too high, your attention slipped for just a moment. It happens. The plan was solid but the execution faltered. The dark edges serving as evidence of effort.
The ripped jeans are symbols of movement. A narrative of wear, strain, and persistence. It’s hard to keep pace with things sometimes and the tears become more noticeable over time. The rips become badges. The jeans, though now imperfect, become more yours for what they’ve endured.
The glitches on your screens are tales of betrayal. A file corrupted, an image distorted, a screen flickers with error. You lost it all. You did everything right, and still, it faltered. The cruel reminder that even the best plans bend to the whims of fate. There’s an allure to it though, the way the universe refused to cooperate.
There’s nothing pretty about it, but there’s something beautiful about it. A reminder that existence isn’t defined by the glorious moments alone, but by everything that surrounds them.