Spend enough time around success and failure, and you learn a

Host: The night had begun its quiet descent over the city skyline, where towers blinked like the pulse of ambition — red, gold, white — a thousand little stories of victory and defeat burning through the dark. Inside a nearly empty bar, jazz hummed softly beneath the low murmur of conversation. The scent of old wood, spilled whiskey, and time lingered in the air.

In a booth by the window, Jack sat with his sleeves rolled up, his eyes tired but bright — that peculiar brightness that lives only in people who’ve gambled too much on dreams. Jeeny sat across from him, a cup of black coffee cooling beside her, her fingers tracing lazy circles in the condensation on the glass. Between them lay silence — not heavy, but alive, like an unopened book.

Then, quietly, Jeeny spoke.

Jeeny: “Dale Dauten once said, ‘Spend enough time around success and failure, and you learn a reverence for possibility.’”

Jack: (Chuckling.) “Reverence, huh? That’s one way to put it. I’d say you just get tired.”

Host: The light above their table flickered — a pulse of gold that caught the glint of the glass in Jack’s hand. Outside, a taxi passed through a puddle, scattering light into liquid fragments.

Jeeny: “You only say that because you still think in terms of outcomes. Success and failure aren’t opposites, Jack. They’re teachers.”

Jack: “Teachers that charge too much tuition.”

Jeeny: (Smiling.) “True. But they’re the only teachers that don’t lie to you.”

Host: The music swelled — a slow trumpet line, tender and bruised. Jeeny leaned forward, her voice gentler now.

Jeeny: “Think about it. You’ve succeeded. You’ve failed. You’ve been both the dreamer and the realist. Haven’t you learned that what matters isn’t winning or losing — it’s staying curious enough to try again?”

Jack: “Curiosity doesn’t pay rent.”

Jeeny: “No, but it keeps you alive.”

Jack: “Barely.”

Host: He downed the rest of his drink, the ice clinking against the glass — the sound of something finishing before it’s truly done.

Jeeny: “You sound like someone who’s forgotten that possibility is sacred.”

Jack: (Smirking.) “Sacred? You make it sound like religion.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Think about it — faith and possibility are twins. Both demand you believe in something you can’t yet see.”

Jack: (Quietly.) “Faith. That’s a dangerous word.”

Jeeny: “So is failure. But we still say it.”

Host: The bartender turned off one of the overhead lights, leaving the bar cloaked in a deeper shade of warmth. The world outside was blurred by rain — streaks of water turning the city into impressionist art.

Jack: “You know what success feels like? Pressure. You climb one mountain, and people start asking when you’ll reach the next. And failure? That’s just silence. Both are lonely.”

Jeeny: “Because you measure them from the outside. Success and failure are just costumes. The real story happens underneath — where you learn who you are when neither fits.”

Jack: (Sighing.) “You make philosophy sound like therapy.”

Jeeny: “And you make fear sound like logic.”

Host: He looked at her then, his expression softening. The fight in his tone dimmed, replaced by the faint ache of recognition.

Jack: “You ever wonder how many people stopped trying just because failure spoke louder than possibility?”

Jeeny: “Too many. That’s why Dauten’s right — being around success and failure long enough makes you humble. You realize neither lasts. What does is the space between them — that flicker of ‘what if.’ That’s reverence.”

Jack: “Reverence for possibility…” (He repeated the phrase slowly, tasting it like an unfamiliar drink.) “You think that’s what keeps people going?”

Jeeny: “No. I think it’s what keeps them human.”

Host: A pause. The rain softened. The world outside shimmered in layers of reflection — a painting of itself. Jeeny reached across the table and nudged his empty glass away gently.

Jeeny: “You talk like someone who’s been hurt by both success and failure.”

Jack: “Maybe I just believed they meant more than they do.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe you stopped believing in possibility.”

Jack: “Possibility’s dangerous. It gets you hoping again.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly why it’s holy.”

Host: The trumpet in the background hit a long, trembling note — the kind that breaks you open and stitches you back together in the same breath. Jack’s eyes drifted toward the window, where two people walked by laughing under a shared umbrella, unbothered by the rain.

Jack: (Softly.) “You ever think possibility hurts more than failure?”

Jeeny: “Only if you confuse it with expectation. Possibility isn’t a promise — it’s a door. You’re the one who decides if you walk through.”

Jack: “And if it leads nowhere?”

Jeeny: “Then at least you moved. Standing still is its own kind of failure.”

Host: The clock above the bar struck midnight — twelve deliberate notes that cut through the haze. The bartender began stacking chairs, his movements rhythmic, mechanical, human. Jack reached for his coat but didn’t stand.

Jack: “You know what I’ve learned from all of this?”

Jeeny: “What?”

Jack: “That success feels temporary, failure feels permanent, and both are illusions. The only real thing is the trying.”

Jeeny: (Smiling.) “That’s the reverence Dauten meant. To bow to the trying.”

Host: A quiet lingered between them — not emptiness, but arrival. The rain stopped, the night exhaled. The city outside gleamed, its lights no longer harsh but patient — a thousand small possibilities waiting to be born.

Jack: “You know, maybe we’ve been worshiping the wrong things. Success and failure are just weather patterns. Possibility… that’s the climate.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You can’t control it. You can only live in it.”

Host: He finally stood, slipping his coat on, his face soft with something that looked dangerously close to peace. Jeeny followed, pausing for a last glance at the half-empty bar — their shared confessional of glass and words.

Jack: “Reverence for possibility…” (He smiled faintly.) “Maybe that’s the only religion worth keeping.”

Jeeny: “It’s the only one that forgives both winning and losing.”

Host: They stepped into the damp night, the air cool, electric with the scent of rain and renewal. The streetlights flickered overhead like small awakenings, and their footsteps echoed softly — two believers walking home through the temple of uncertainty.

And as they disappeared down the glistening street, the words of Dale Dauten lingered in the still air —

that success and failure are not opposites,
but altars at which we kneel and learn humility;
and that to live fully,
we must keep faith not in outcome,
but in the ever-sacred, ever-dangerous
possibility of beginning again.