messy, alive, and falling
Success keeps moving the finish line, and I’m too stubborn to quit the race.
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The city buzzed, muffled by thin windows that did a lousy job of shutting it out. Life rolled on out there—cars, people, noise.
Meanwhile, I sat inside, stuck. My apartment reeked of old coffee, crumpled paper, and the kind of dust that settles quietly, waiting for someone to care.
But no one did.
The laptop’s glow hit my face like an interrogation light.
Blink. Blink.
The cursor flickered, smug as hell. It knew I was stalled.
It had patience. I didn’t.
My chest was tight. Like a balloon stretched too far, just begging to pop. I had to nail this. Every piece of it. No room for error. No plan B.
Messing this up wasn’t an option.
Failure lurked, pouring its poison right into my ear.
I shut my eyes, clenching hard, as if squeezing them closed would stop the spiral.
Yeah, no. That never worked. It never does.
I built my world to keep fear out.
One lost file, and it crumbles—
tasks unravel, feathers torn from wings.
I reach for the pieces,
but the wreckage hums:
Stay down.
What if ruin is the only truth?
What if I was meant to break?
I wasn’t always like this—or at least that’s the lie I liked to tell myself.
There was a time when the grind felt good, when I chased every project with fire instead of fear. Back then, every small win tasted like momentum, and the late nights felt like an investment in a future that would one day let me breathe.
That future never showed up.
It started small—staying late here, tweaking some slides there, chasing every typo like it owed me rent. At first, people noticed. They’d toss compliments my way.
“You’ve got an eye for detail,” they’d say.
And I soaked it in like gasoline, burning brighter, running harder.
Then came the promotions. The pats on the back. I posed for pictures, shook the right hands, nodded at all the “Well deserved!” comments. Told myself this was happiness.
But afterwards, I dropped onto my couch and stared at the ceiling. Feeling hollow. I thought I’d feel proud, maybe a little relieved. Instead, dread curled at the edges of my mind. Peace didn’t come. Just another goal, already waiting to suck me under.
So, I kept running.
The cursor blinked. Slow. Mocking.
My hands hovered over the keyboard, useless. My brain sat blank. Empty. Heavy.
I leaned back, my heartbeat thudding against my ribs like a warning bell. The idea of handing in something mediocre made my skin crawl.
Anything less than perfect was unthinkable. I could already hear that inner voice creeping in, slick and sharp: What if they realize you’ve been faking it this whole time?
And then, out of nowhere—Shadow showed up. Slid in quietly, like they’d been waiting all along. They leaned against the wall, arms crossed, that sly grin playing at their lips.
“Perfection’s got you in chains,” Shadow murmured. “You built a cage so tight you can’t even see the world happening outside it. Why do you think nothing ever feels like enough?”
I swallowed hard, throat tight as if someone had tied it in a knot. I wanted to argue, but the words jammed up behind the exhaustion sitting heavy in my chest.
Before I could catch my breath, Ego strutted in, loud and unapologetic as ever.
“Hold up,” Ego barked, throwing Shadow a cutting glance. “Let’s not pretend failure’s some kind of freedom. Perfection isn’t a trap—it’s a weapon. A sharp edge that keeps us ahead.”
They crossed their arms with a smirk.
“Excellence isn’t the problem here. It’s the solution. It’s what sets you apart from the slackers.”
I straightened a little, clinging to Ego’s words like a rope dangling over a cliff.
“Exactly,” I said. “If I don’t do this perfectly, everything falls apart. People expect the best from me.”
Shadow’s grin widened, slow and certain, like they knew something I didn’t.
They stepped forward, voice soft but sharp enough to cut.
“Let them down—or let yourself down? That’s the real choice, isn’t it?”
Their words wrapped around me like cold air through a cracked window.
“You think this is about excellence, but it’s not. It’s fear. Fear of being exposed. You’re not chasing success—you’re running from being seen.”
The truth hit hard, and I felt it settle like a weight in my chest.
But before I could sit with it too long, Ego shot back, fierce and defiant.
“Fear?”
They snorted, brushing Shadow’s words off like dust.
“Don’t be ridiculous. This is discipline. Control. Perfection isn’t running—it’s winning. It’s the only way to stay on top.”
I nodded fast, clinging to Ego’s bravado like a lifeline.
“Yeah. If I don’t get this right, people will know. They’ll see I’m not what they think I am.”
But even as the words left my mouth, the weight in my bones gave me away.
I remember the first time I hit the wall.
Mid-twenties.
Running on coffee, deadlines, and desperation. Three projects on my plate, each one demanding nothing less than perfection.
I told myself, Finish these, and you’ll take a break. Maybe even book a vacation.
But that vacation never came.
The dust barely settled before the next goal crashed in. And then another. And another. I was running on fumes, but I couldn’t stop. Didn’t dare. I was hooked on the idea that the next success—the one just out of reach—would make it all feel worth it.
My ambition wasn’t about growing anymore.
It had morphed into survival. A game of keep-up.
I wasn’t chasing dreams—I was dodging failure. If I stopped, even for a second, everything would collapse. That’s what I told myself, anyway.
Because the truth was—I wasn’t sure I’d have it in me to start again.
Shadow crouched beside me now, steady gaze locked on mine.
“You’re stuck, Self,” they murmured, voice low but sharp. “Perfection’s got you on a hamster wheel, promising peace is just one more achievement away. But it’s not. It never is. There’s always another project. Another goal. And the second you hit it, the bar moves.”
Their words hit like a weight to the chest. My shoulders sagged.
“But if I stop pushing,” I muttered, barely louder than a breath, “I’ll fall behind. If I let go, everything could fall apart.”
Shadow’s hand landed on my shoulder—light, but grounding.
“That’s the trick,” they said. “Perfection feeds you the lie that slowing down equals failure. But peace? It doesn’t come from flawless execution. It comes from giving yourself permission to be human.”
Ego scoffed from the corner, arms crossed, looking like they were born exasperated.
“Oh please. We’re not here to coast. Mediocrity isn’t an option, Shadow. Excellence demands we push. Perfection is the only way we win.”
Shadow didn’t flinch. Their voice dropped, calm and unwavering.
“Win what, exactly? You’re burning out, chasing a goal that doesn’t exist. What if success isn’t about getting everything perfect? What if it’s just... showing up? Doing what you can and growing as you go?”
I dragged my hand through my hair, fingers shaking at the edges.
“But what if I can’t let go of it?” My voice cracked, betraying the doubt I hated admitting out loud. “What if everything falls apart? What if I fall apart?”
Shadow smiled—soft, but knowing.
“You will fall. That’s part of it. But falling isn’t the end. That’s where growth begins. Success was never about being perfect. It’s about showing up messy, failing, learning, and finding meaning in the mess.”
I exhaled slow, cracked my knuckles, and placed my hands on the keyboard. Then—finally—I started typing.
Not perfect. But real.
The words stumbled out, rough and jagged, but at least they were there.
For the first time in weeks, maybe months, I felt the smallest flicker of relief.
Each keystroke felt like pulling myself out of quicksand. One step, then another, lungs finally tasting air after too long underwater.
I wasn’t aiming for flawless—I was aiming for alive. Messy. Unscripted.
Then it happened.
A flicker. The screen stuttered. Just for a second. Then black.
My stomach plummeted.
I jiggled the mouse like an idiot, slammed random keys—anything to wake it up. Nothing. Just silence. My pulse hammered against my ribcage, fast and brutal. The screen blinked back on, but what came next was worse than the silence.
Document not found.
Gone. All of it. Evaporated like it never existed.
Panic slammed into me, sharp and merciless. My chest tightened; every breath felt like trying to pull air through a straw. My fingers danced wildly across the keys—click, click—error, error.
“No, no, no. Come on.” My voice cracked, thin and useless. Cold sweat bloomed along the back of my neck, the kind that makes you feel hunted. The cursor blinked, smug as hell, daring me to keep going.
Ego stormed in, loud and relentless.
“You can’t lose this! Do you understand? If this fails, everything fails. You have to fix it.”
I could feel the heat rising behind Ego’s words, the kind of panic that sticks in your bones.
But then Shadow slid in, calm as midnight.
“This is it, Self,” they said, voice steady enough to rattle me. “Are you going to keep running? Or are you ready to let it all fall—and start over?”
I sat there, paralyzed.
Everything I’d built, every ounce of control I’d clung to—teetering on the edge, slipping away.
And the only question left to answer...
Was whether I could survive the crash.
The cursor blinked—slow, patient—as if waiting for me to decide.
—Ryan Puusaari
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P.P.S. "Broken doesn’t mean finished—it just means there’s more story to tell."
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