The Fogged Glass

The envelope sits on the table in front of me.  This one piece of paper is the difference between a life of success and one of failure.  Sure, there are other options, but they don't matter in this moment.  This is my life. People say you decide your future, but they're wrong. You don't. Other people who don't know a thing about you other than what you can pack into one application do. And my life has been decided. But the judgement is still unknown to me. Ignorance is bliss. And safety. And staring me down in the form of skillfully creased white paper. It taunts me to open it, to gain the knowledge of the judgement. The judgement that I had no control over. These lines of ink are what're going to tell me if my life will go up or down. This doesn't seem fair. Why have I put so much energy, time, and devotion into something just to come begging to someone, and still give them the opportunity to tear it away from me? It doesn't make any sense. But that's just how the world is. Nothing makes sense, and there's nothing any of us do about it. We just go along like machines. So my only option: let this paper determine my life? Why try to break the system now, I guess. But I lack the nerve to face my future dead on. Staring at it is like staring through the fogged glass of a car window on a cold day.  I can't see through it, but it has the potential of showing me so much of the world.  Slowly, I grab the letter and rip the seal.  My eyes fall closed to be shielded from the life-altering words on the opening page.

Dear applicant,

           We are sorry to inform you...

With those six words, my breath halts.  The car has crashed.  The glass is shattered.