What if you told yourself a few sharply different things. For a start, how on earth were you to know?
How are any of us meant to lead the unblemished lives we cruelly assume it’s our responsibility to lead when we possess so little of the information, about ourselves and the conditions of life, that are required?
Why do we keep feeling surprised and angry that we fail around love and work, friendship and family given that we have so few of the tools necessary to live with any semblance of wisdom?
Sometimes failure might just be a mishap rather than a sign that we don’t deserve to live. A rejection might not have to be a harbinger of unlimited doom. It is open to us to arrange the very same facts into another kind of story.
We should accept our idiocy with grace.
What we need is the darkest kind of celebration, a politely giant fuck you to the universe for the way we have made up as bits of semi-coherent, semi-conscious suffering biological matter pinned to a spinning rock near a fading star without a clue of how to conduct ourselves meaningfully.
We may be experts at beating ourselves up, but this is a banal sport we’ve triumphed at for too long. Let’s try to explore the forgotten glamour of giving ourselves a break and, once in a while, of turning towards light, reassurance, and a bit of compassionate cosiness.