This is the moment I continue to revisit, even though it happened over a year ago. It is a small memory, a memory that seems insignificant to anyone else, but it lingers with me, hovering in the background of my mind. I am standing in my parents' garage, surrounded by the familiar smell of sawdust and engine oil, struggling to fix this old, crooked shelf that has collapsed from nothingness. It is one of those shelves that has seen better days, its wood worn from many years of holding forgotten boxes and holiday decorations. I thought it would be an easy fix - just a few screws and it would be as good as new. But no matter how much I adjusted, no matter how many angles I tried, it refused to line up. As if the universe conspired against this simple task.
With each passing second, I felt myself becoming more frustrated - not with the shelf, but with everything. It was no longer about a piece of wood. It felt like the shelf was a cruel metaphor for my entire life. Everything had fallen apart, and I had tried so hard to hold it all together, to fit the pieces into place, but I couldn't. I had failed.
To be fair, I wasn't in the midst of a dramatic life-crushing crisis or anything. It wasn't one of those low points that people talk about.