Thoughts are what is advertised here, so thoughts I shall muster to the best, or more optimistically, beyond my ability.

I regularly get caught in my own preponderance of incompetence within this finite timeline of mortality. Whatever the outward projection of perspective I might exude, I am never far from the ever-lingering concept of failure. My own, to be specific.

Though the idea of failure itself cannot seem to exist in a mind space void of preconceived expectation- where those ideas take root, as I see it, have two sets of starting positions. I suppose there might be a third, but that one holds court in a realm far beyond a single, or even a few generations perspective of time.

The first is the internal. Which for yours truly, is always the harshest. So much so, it has regularly managed to both take the negative outside interpretations and exasperate those by both inches and miles, while also be able to create thoughts of under accomplishment from little more than thin air. Perhaps because the expectations set from within are not the type that can easily be hidden from the author. I know my own desires and derelictions more thoroughly than any other. Whether consciously aware of what was hoped or intended, I know the feelings fomented when what was dreamed never breaks the barrier between the imagined and reality.

As many may already know, and perhaps know themselves for themselves, as well- I am often, behind it all, my own harshest critic. And depending on the charges in the specific, I may have built logical arguments for the case presented.

The other starting point would be based upon the perspective conceived outside of a singular sentience experiencing itself. Its is here that the sense of failure has a bit more fluctuation. Not to propose any sort of perfection. Far from. It’s likely as you read these words, you may be reexperiencing some examples of failing I had caused you- be it recent or sometime more ancient. I likely recall the instance, though I suppose time numbs many a wound.

But it is often in the perspective of others that the ebb and flow of my own self-demotion is more dynamic. Lucky enough to be able to have companions in mellifluous tonal performance, I have been informed as recently as this very day that my actions and intentions have succeeded. That instead of doom, deeds done by my body and sentience have amplified the power and positivity of those around.

Further than that, I have been let in on the weight of my own words upon others- whether I can recall the sentences myself or not. I do not question the utterances, as I trust the sources. Nor do I question the integrity, especially in the cases where it is more difficult to recollect from my perspective. To me, that means these words were not preconceived, but rather spoken in a moment so present that it existed more potently in the world outside than having been dreamt up and edited on the inside first.

I am no saint, though. And know I have plenty actions that anyone with an ounce of piety would be aiming to repent for. And plenty still that my own self-preservation instinct has swept to the recesses of the mind, not able to be called forth with ease. And others still, that sit around the forefront, unswaying and currently beyond negotiation. So close to center stage, that the faces are still clear in the light that turns heads just a bit further out into ever darkening shapes until fading into the general assembly of abyss.

That all, of course, pulls the thoughts to mind of the shape and shade of my own identity when observed externally. And even wilder, in some other place in time. There may be, and likely is, someone who has held feelings synonymous with contempt towards your narrator for ages as short as days and as lengthy as decades. My own intrusion into the timeline of others may have caused damage yet repaired, or worse closer to the lines of irreparable.

Pretty interesting attempt to indulge in my own self-importance while masking the attempt to relate to other humans, right?

The pomposity to even think you might be more than a blip in the sentience of others. How dare he?

Which brings that third perspective on failure. Really, just the second plus time. And one that will never be known by the obsessives who hold such concerns. Narcissist, and the like. And whatever I would tell you now, I know within that inescapable sense of self aggrandizement that this is still regularly upon the center and edges of my mind.

I wonder how all I ever do in this life will echo in the eternities I will never know myself. How history will remember me. Which as arrogant as that is has an ultimate answerable quantity. Ultimately, none of us survive that that far. Eventually, it all fades to dust, leaving the whole of humanity in an imperceptible wake. So far gone that not even the faintest reverberation remains.

Yet, I still wonder- will anything I do last beyond my own organic vessel, marching ever onward towards decomposition?

I do this, while thinking of ripples of other beings whose paths crossed mine. And I wonder if the weight assigned each other is anywhere near equivalent. I know it can’t be. In both directions. There are those that reside in my mind that hold no such vigil for me. And if there exists the opposite, I apologize. Not trying to be a monster, but I suppose I have my moments.