Phantom of Failure

This writing is an attempt to give voice to a phantom—one that lingers in the shadows of every life, yet is never truly seen. Failure.

This is not just an autobiography of Failure; it is an intimate confrontation with an emotion that never speaks, yet is always heard. A force so deeply woven into our existence that we pray, beg, and bargain to escape it—only to find that it was never truly gone, only waiting just beyond the veil of our illusions.

So read on, but know this—you might not be alone. Failure could be sitting beside you, watching, smiling in that quiet way, as you continue believing you have outrun it.

Hi, I am Failure. You probably know me better than I do. I am the most ‘unwanted’ part of your life, and I still exist—or do I?

I am the shadow that lingers within you, silent yet weighty, shaping the contours of your soul with an invisible hand. I whisper where joy shouts, embracing you more often than my fleeting companion, Success. You may not call for me, but I reside in the quiet chambers of your thoughts, lingering in the spaces between hope and despair. Some say I am sent by the divine, a celestial decree woven into the fabric of existence, only to be taken away when my purpose is fulfilled.

Few welcome my presence; my footsteps are met with sighs, my embrace with tears. Yet, the wise call me a lesson, while the weary name me the root of sorrow. I wonder—why does the world greet me with such reluctance when I am but the sculptor, chiselling away at your spirit, refining you for the splendour that awaits? Why do my hands bear the weight of grief when they are merely pulling you back, only to release you toward triumph unimaginable?

I am the child of struggle, the echo of choices made in pursuit of something greater. My arrival is often met with distractions—substances that promise solace, though they do not diminish my touch. I am the crack of thunder before the cleansing rain, the storm before the stillness. I am the tear that lingers in a baby’s dimple before a sudden burst of laughter, the valley before the towering peak. I am the raging waterfall that carves stone with relentless force, only to give way to the gentle murmur of a river in repose.

I do not grace all equally. My presence in life is measured by serendipity, and my form is shaped by fortune. None seek me, no long for my touch, yet the worthy are forged only in my grasp. I am the trial before the triumph, the ache before the awakening.

I am Failure—but only to those who do not yet see me for what I truly am: the unseen hand that leads you, ever so gently, toward the light.

I am but a failure—why, then, do you see me in so many forms? I have never disguised myself, never worn a mask, and yet, you perceive me differently each time I arrive.

I was there when you took your first unsteady steps, holding you when you stumbled, whispering in your ear when your knees met the earth. I was with you when you first ran, when you first fell, when you first tasted pain. Unlike my fleeting sibling, Success, I linger. I stay when the applause fades, the lights dim, and the world turns away. I sit with you in silence, though you rarely acknowledge me.

I am neither large nor small, neither sharp nor dull, neither towering nor deep. I am merely a breath caught between despair and hope, a fleeting ache that reminds you—you are still alive. You do not embrace me, nor do you celebrate my presence. You see me, you name me, but you treat me like a stranger.

I am woven into your myths and scriptures, hidden within the lives of gods and saints, yet you refuse to call me inevitable.

You carve statues of their triumphs and recite verses of their victories but overlook how often I was with them—perhaps even more than I have been with you. You chase perfection, yet forget that even divinity was sculpted through me.

I am nothing but a reflection of your own mind, the creation of your own thoughts. I do not come of my own will, nor am I sent by fate. Like Success, I exist only through your emotions, desires, and regrets. Unlike my sibling, I am never compared—no one measures one’s failures against another’s. Yet, with Success, you never fail to look around, weigh and measure, and ask who has more?

Trust me, I can be far more interesting than you dare to imagine. Sometimes, I am not just a shadow lurking in the corner—I am the enigma that keeps your mind awake at night, the whisper of doubt that lingers even in triumph.

The thinkers, the philosophers, the ones who pretend to understand the depth of existence—they tell you to compare me in grand, exaggerated forms, dressing me up in tragedy just to make you feel a little better about your own.

Philosophers spin stories, build illusions, craft myths around me, convincing you that someone else’s loss is just a reminder of your own fortune.

Oh, I have watched you. You seem to accept me—even like me—as long as I do not belong to you. When I settle in another’s life, you study me with curiosity, almost admiration. You dissect me, analyze me, whisper about me in hushed tones over coffee and candlelight. But when I come knocking at your door? You recoil. You curse my name. You beg for escape.

And yet, there’s something about me that draws you in, isn’t there? While Success stirs envy in your heart, my presence in another’s life fills you with something darker, something unspoken—a twisted relief, a quiet pleasure hidden beneath layers of sympathy. You wouldn’t dare admit it, but I see it. I always see it.

Historians try to chart my arrival, prophets claim to foresee my footsteps, but they never get it right. I come when I want. I leave without a trace. You try to anticipate me, brace yourself for impact, but the joke’s on you—I am never where you expect me to be.

I am here, always here, waiting in the spaces between your breaths, in the echoes of your silence. I am a Failure—constant, unchanging, and yet seen differently every time I return. Let’s not pretend like I’m the villain here. I don’t ruin lives. I make ‘em interesting.

Because, in truth, I don’t exist the way you think I do. I am not real, not solid, not tangible. I am an apparition made of perception, a mirage shaped by your fears and expectations. I am both nothing and everything.

I am Failure, but only because you named me so.

A letter to daughter

Dear Daughter

As you are thirteen now, you have crossed the threshold into a realm of dreams and infinite possibilities, and I fervently hope that life unfurls its wonders before you with gentle grace. Know that your father is immensely proud—not merely of your achievements but of the depth with which you seek meaning and purpose in the ever-unfolding tapestry of existence.

It has long been my vision to see you flourish in a world without borders, to witness you learning in an environment where knowledge is not confined by walls and where your mentors inspire not merely through lessons but through the richness of their diverse experiences. It fills my soul with profound gratitude to the Almighty, who has granted me the privilege of watching my dream materialize—to see you embark on this transformative chapter of your life in Ireland.

I do not pretend to be oblivious to the trials that accompanied this change—the unfamiliar faces, the foreign customs, the daunting solitude that often accompanies the uncharted. Yet, my dear, you bore these challenges with an elegance that surpasses words. Not once did you let your apprehension mar the serenity of your countenance, though I, like a father who knows the silent language of his child, saw the telltale signs—your fingers absentmindedly grazing your nails in quiet unease. And yet, you prevailed. You navigated the labyrinth of change with an unshaken spirit, displaying a wisdom far beyond your years.

Life, in its very essence, is an ever-shifting current. Our bodies, thoughts, and even our deepest convictions ebb and transform in imperceptible ways, bound to the intangible dimensions of time and space. You, my beloved daughter, have embraced this truth with an intellect and resilience that astound me. Though you seldom speak of it, I am aware of the prejudice and unkindness you have endured at the hands of those too small-minded to see beyond their own narrow world. You endured it with quiet fortitude, neither bending to their cruelty nor allowing it to define you. That, my child, is a strength few possess—a strength that will serve you well in the years to come.

You are a vision of grace, a rare beauty illuminated not merely by outward charm but by the quiet fire of your spirit. I recall, with unshakable pride, the time when your mother and I were compelled to leave for India due to an unforeseen medical emergency. In our absence, you stood steadfast, tending to your grandparents with a maturity that belied your years, offering them the comfort and assurance they so dearly needed in a land still foreign to them. Their concern had been for you, and yet it was you who became their guardian, their quiet pillar of strength.

It was during this time that you received your first mobile phone—a serendipitous consequence of our untimely departure to India. While many urged me to impose restrictions, I chose to place my trust in you instead. A phone, after all, is but a portal—a window into a world vast and boundless, one painted in myriad shades, neither wholly light nor wholly dark. It is yours to navigate, yours to discern between what is good and what is unworthy. I have faith that you will choose wisely.

As parents, we often perceive you through the prism of our own past, through the echoes of the lives we have led. Yet you belong to a time different from ours, one shaped by experiences we have never known. And though we may not always understand, trust that we try, every single day, to walk beside you, to feel the rhythm of your world, to match the cadence of your soul.

Your love for your brother reminds me of the bond I once shared with my sister, a bond woven with both tenderness and the sweet, inevitable mischief of siblinghood. Annoyance and affection, love and rivalry—such is the nature of brothers and sisters, a dance unchanged by time. And though it pains me to see you longing for the companionship of the dear friend you lost to the tides of circumstance, I have no doubt that the universe will conspire to bring you together again. True friendships, the ones written in the stars, never truly fade. They endure, waiting patiently for the moment of reunion, where time will have changed nothing but the stories you will have to tell.

So go forth, my beloved child, with the certainty that you are cherished beyond measure. The world is vast, its roads winding and uncertain, but wherever life may lead you, know that my love and my pride shall follow you, steadfast and unwavering, like the light of a distant star guiding a traveller home.

Your Proud Father

A Night of Reflection and a Dream Beyond Time

It was yet another solitary night in a home that had, for over a month, been devoid of my family’s presence. They were in the midst of the visa process, and I anticipated their arrival within the next few weeks. As the cold grip of the Irish winter settled in, I dressed accordingly, layering myself against the biting chill. Before succumbing to slumber, I followed my usual ritual—reading ten pages from books spanning an eclectic range of subjects: quantum physics, psychology, philosophy, fiction, and beyond.

Wrapped in my blanket, I drifted into sleep with surprising ease. However, the morning greeted me not just with gratitude but with a mind brimming with questions. A dream had unfolded in the depths of my subconscious—one that was both surreal and profoundly beautiful.

I found myself gazing at a younger version of me. At present, I am 38 years old, but the version of myself in the dream appeared to be around 29 or 30. The first sight that captured my attention was my little daughter, a radiant five-year-old, gleefully swinging in a lush, leafy garden just in front of a house. Her laughter echoed in the air, her joy amplified by the presence of her mother beside her. I marveled at the youthful image of my wife, her face beaming with happiness as she shared this moment with our child. Then, my eyes were drawn to the house itself. Standing at the front door, observing his family with quiet contemplation, was the younger version of me.

The vision was both mesmerizing and bewildering. Overwhelmed by the moment, I instinctively reached into the right pocket of my trousers and retrieved my phone. Without hesitation, I dialed my wife and described the astonishing scene before me, urging her to join me in witnessing this inexplicable phenomenon. As dreams often unfold in strange, time-defying sequences, she soon appeared by my side, her expression lighting up with joy at the sight of her younger self sharing laughter with our daughter. True to her nature, she rushed toward her past self, her signature enthusiasm evident. With an infectious smile, she began chatting eagerly, pausing only to take photographs—capturing, as she always did, the essence of a joyful moment.

While she reveled in the interaction, I chose to approach my younger self. Even at that age, I had been perpetually preoccupied with concerns about the future—success, financial stability, family well-being, and the pursuit of happiness.

As I neared him, a wave of warmth washed over me. I smiled, feeling an inexplicable sense of fulfillment at the sight of my younger self. Yet, to my surprise, he did not mirror my joy. His expression was neutral, unreadable—almost as if he were burdened by an invisible weight. I embraced him, profoundly aware that this was the first time I had ever “met” myself. Yet, despite the momentous nature of this encounter, I sensed unease in his demeanor. His eyes held unspoken questions, silent apprehensions that I recognized all too well.

He did not speak, but I did.

“You have nothing to fear,” I assured him. “I come from the future, and I want you to trust that you will navigate life with resilience. You will find joy, you will build a life of meaning, and your family will be happy. But you must not allow worry and stress to entangle you. Smile more often. Appreciate what you have. Do not let fear rob you of the present moments you are blessed with.”

Upon awakening, my mind was inundated with questions. Had I ever dreamt of an older version of myself when I was younger? What prompted my subconscious to weave such a narrative? Could this be more than a mere dream—perhaps a glimpse into the concept of time travel or parallel realities? Was this an actual message from my future self, or merely a reflection of my present self speaking to my past?

More intriguingly, why did my younger self remain impassive? Why did neither of our past selves acknowledge or communicate with us? Could they not perceive our presence? What if my future self is already speaking to me now, but I am simply unaware of its presence?

A final, haunting thought lingered. I have never owned a house with a garden like the one in my dream. So why did I see my younger self standing there, expressionless, watching his wife and daughter? Was this merely a dream, or did it bear a deeper significance—one that I have yet to comprehend?