For years, nineteen was actually my lucky number. Soulmate aside, I say “was” because I don’t believe in luck anymore. At least, not in the way I believe in love. Luck is for people who enjoy taking chances from within their comfort zone. It’s safer than celibacy. Love, on the other hand, is a little more daring – kinda like the 0.1% chance of getting pregnant on the pill (in terms of consequences, you’re still better off going with love, just no sex before marriage, kids).
Luck may be safe, but it doesn’t really care about you. It’s instinctive, inconsistent, and lazy – a bit like the men you decide not to marry. Nevertheless, I’d say everybody growing up in the Western world believes in luck at some point in their life. It’s too commonly mentioned not to: good-luck with your exam; I’m so lucky to have met you; you’re out of luck today, the last jam and cream donut sold an hour ago. Luck has become an inherent quality that facilitates our future and supposedly supports our success. Its demeanour is charming and claims to have our best interests at heart, so unquestioningly, our co-operation is assumed and typically given. But, I mean – who doesn’t want to flirt with the cute guy at the counter? If you’re checking out anyway, luck doesn’t seem too bad of a bonus for something that’s free. However, that’s where we must remember to remain sceptical: just because he’s cute, doesn’t mean he cares.
Luck is the illusion that good things come to those who do nothing but wait. I, for one, despise luck, because of its tendency to discredit hard work and hours of late-night study – as if an ‘A+’ is earned through the kindness of coincidence. I despise luck because it fails to acknowledge that some people are put into your life for a purpose, whilst others are just there, and the meaning you make from that is completely up to you. I despise luck because it claims to have no limitations, yet scarcely remembers to replenish itself; and I despise luck because it attempts to overthrow love. It takes ownership of our decisions and emotions, and claims victory through the submissiveness of society, reaping its reputation from the achievement and power of others’. Luck is the devil in disguise – it’s tempting to fall for, but only fulfils itself.
It’s been nineteen days since my soulmate and I last spoke. Personally, I’d rather just say three weeks, because nineteen was my lucky number until I decided my favourite number is three – and because a pet peeve of mine is when a mother describes her child as being 27.4536 months old, when quite simply, her child is two. In hindsight, I’ve got a fair idea it was probably something I said; we’ll spare the details for the sake of your imagination, but it was pretty cringe. After our third day of silence, following the two-text rule, I figured I’d ran out of luck.
It’s been nineteen days, so now I’m not so sure he’s my soulmate, after all. But I’m not that bothered. Luckily for me, I still believe in love.