Losing

Good evening! I nearly forgot to write in you. It's almost midnight. But I will keep to this practice.


It's near midnight but I have that feeling, as I do almost every night, where I'm not sure that I've done enough. I think after I finish this blogpost I will arrange my books by color and listen to a podcast about meditation.

That's what I will do, yes.

Little exercises in the pointless for me to valorously welcome in the night.


When I'm too nervous or anxious about doing something, I just let myself do it as poorly as possible. I don't take the leap. I just throw my hands up, lean back. Feel gravity gather in my heels, a weightlessness tingling in the small of my back as I fall backwards from the plank. Not even looking it in the eye.

I once asked Maria if she ever felt like doing everything wrong just to prove that it's not that big of a deal. To sabotage her life completely so as not to fear it happening by accident. I assumed this was something that most people feel, and I've come around to the other side. That's insane.

It came from something I read about Dostoyevsky, I think it was the preface to The Gambler, and I would have been reading it at The Strand, trying very hard to sabotage my life. In it was something about how what really thrilled Dostoyevsky about gambling wasn't winning, but losing. Terribly. Squandering it, squandering it all. It doesn't mean anything, because I gave it away. I let chance have it, again and again.

Perhaps this is why I'm not very competitive. I enjoy losing too much. I expect it, and when it finds me, I am reassured. Order is there. Winning is a surprise.

If I win, I win messily, begrudgingly. A split decision. I expect everyone to be upset, booing from beyond the ropes. And I am with them. Who cares about winning? You can have it.