To all the world out there that believes in winners, failure becomes a stain at best. When we think about it carefully, however, even the beaten crowd has a caste. We might call it something like hierarchy of losers: it is really an invisible construction allowing one to feel "more dignified," even while losing. A bankrupt entrepreneur feels better than someone who has never attempted anything; a college dropout proudly announces into the air, "I dropped out of a top-flight university."
It manifests spectacularly in the social media, where scars and failures are displayed like those the way shops display their items. There is the pride in saying, "I failed but in a cooler way." Competition, however, does not stop at achievements; it goes to how one narrates their fall. Even pain gets gamified with impressions, and is interpreted in likes and comments.
A deeper question lurks beneath this ironic analysis: What is losing but a name arbitrarily assigned by collective agreement? Particularly, how many individuals branded as failures under society's criteria may actually be living pure, authentic lives? At some point, the so-called loser hierarchy appears nothing but a social mirage used to redeem dignity from a world that never stops placing comparisons.
A friend of mine once said, “I admit I am an ultra bottom-dwelling loser, but I am happy as pig because nobody wants my spot.” It was funny, but it held some wisdom. Life suddenly became so much easier without participation, even in failing.
Perhaps this is the awesome contradiction of our lives failure is not a conclusion it becomes another layer of existence with alternate perspectives. The moment we abandon belief in the loser category, it ceases to exist. The actual losers aren't the ones who fall; rather, they are the ones who live life entirely by the agency of others' judgments.