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.

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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.