It is a foggy, almost opaque night, but things could not be clearer. I cannot see the nearest building, but a glimpse of everything that is important, that is crucial is not out of the question. When I came back to this city three years ago, which have but felt like three consecutive blinks overflowing with events big and small, I envisioned a life for myself. I realised today, with a faux display of a heavy heart, that I failed at building it. In truth, I could not be more glad that I was so off the mark in my planning that what is here today is a mirror image; my plans have been flipped a hundred and eighty degrees. There is no greater celebration I can have today than this: I have failed remarkably, and yet, I am more than glad for where I landed. It is the connotation that is the problem. Failed, in general, is a terrible word; even a soft mention of failure will make someone wince in remembrance of the last time they had overshot or undershot their mark. But the “what” of failure is crucial. What have I failed at? I have failed at creating a life I thought would make me happy, and through it, I have found a life I could not be more grateful for. My moment of clarity on this utterly nebulous day is a testament to what I have found on a road I stumbled and fell on.
In trying to become who I thought I was to become and failing to get even an inch close to it, I have somehow fooled everyone and managed to become something still. I would not be as perverse to have the audacity to suggest this is who I was meant to become. What is meant and what is not is none of my concern. All I know is that this life feels like a solid mistake, the one you’d want to make again and again when you know how things transpire eventually. Perhaps, this is too early to call it. But if someone asked me today what has changed, I would simply tell them that the crucial once is now mundane, and the mundane, the run-of-the-mill, the banal once could not be more crucial now. That is all the difference in the simplest words I can imagine.