The Thin Line Between Love and Hate

Failure. I hate it. I'm tired of tasting it, and don't even want to risk it anymore it seems. You can't fail if you don't try. Something inside me screams this is absolutely not the right way to think, but my life and attitude disagree. I hate failure more than I love success, or even true peace. I love a false peace/comfort more than I love rightness. I hate failure. It's taste is disgusting, it's weight unbearable, and I refuse to allow anyone else to carry it. I hate the scent of my failure so much, I cannot stand to be near it. Flee from any hint of it whenever I can. And yet I revel in the heaps of my past failures, unable to let them go, surrounding myself and my decisions with them, so much so that you would not think that I hate failure, but instead love it. I bathe in it, drinking it and pouring it all over me. I deserve this. This is my reward for the long battle fought and lost. A victor may get to bathe in sweet success, but I get to bathe in the steaming rot of my failure, and no one can take that reward from me. Especially not freely.