Failure (c. k. williams)

Maybe it’s not as bad as we like to think: no melodramatic rendings, sackcloths, nothing so acute as fantasies of conscience chart in their uncontrollably self-punishing rigors and admonitions.
Less love, yes, but what was love: a febrile, restless, bothersome trembling to continue to possess what one was only partly certain was worth wanting anyway, and if the reservoir of hope is depleted, neither do distracting expectations interfere with these absorbing meditations on the frailties of chance.
A certain resonance might be all that lacks; the voice spinning out in darkness in an empty room.
The recompense is knowing that at last you’ve disconnected from the narratives that conditioned you
to want to be what you were never going to be, while here you are still this far from “the end.”

—in Flesh and Blood

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