Author: CLJ

Writer, artist - sort of.

Body

A stranger, yet so familiar.

Unwanted, yet encouraged.

A change, not thought forward.

A curve, placed uninterrupted.

A reflection, so slightly altered.

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The death of ‘Good Luck’

Why this tiny, innocent and inconspicuous phrase should die.

It may seem like a lovely, little phrase full of endearment, positivity and hope but, I’m afraid, the term good luck is such a vapid, empty, meaningless phrase that we might as well just bin it off.

We pick out this term from our charming phrasebook when someone has an occasion coming up which could result in a negative outcome. We say it to be nice. We say it to give them a boost. We say it to show that we support them on this endeavour.

But what we are really saying is that we have zero faith. I’m going to put my belief with this mysterious luck instead of putting my belief in you. We are belittling the hours of preparation that have been put in. The hours of revision, practice or study. The frustrations, stress and pressure. We are boiling all this down to two tiny words that have zero emotional connection.

So what can we say instead of good luck? I hear you, if good luck is so bloomin’ awful, what are we left with? Well, there are so many alternatives that I think we should switch out this go-to phrase immediately!

You could say:

  • You’ve got this
  • I believe in you
  • I know you can do this
  • Go get ’em
  • Nail it
  • They’d be lucky to have you (works best during job interviews)

Yes, I know these require way more thought than the simple ‘good luck’ but can you feel all that belief, good vibes and spirit that each phrase is filled with. It shows that you have so much faith in the person. That you don’t doubt them. That you don’t think some mysterious spirit needs to help them because they have practiced and prepared. It shows pure belief!

So, there you have it. Why we should put ‘good luck’ into retirement.

And if anyone takes this seriously, oh dear. It is an annoying little phrase, though.

Empty

Slightly burnt, with crusts a little too thick. 

The last of the butter, evenly spread.

A little sweeter, perhaps? Too bland otherwise. 

Is there anything left in the cupboard? 

Jam, marmite, lemoncurd?

Maybe the marmite. 

Some will hate but others will love. 

They’ll say the taste is too strong. 

Lingers. 

They’ll have their opinions. They’ll say. 

But still they will take, despite their talk. 

And when there’s nothing left, they’ll move onto the next,

leaving nothing but a few crumbs and an empty shelf. 

Street folk

A sharp scream that pierced the night,
echoing through the neighbourhood.
Its owner unknown, hidden amongst the black.
The street folk shifted, sensing something but not wanting to know.
Hands in pockets, gazes cast down, they shuffle forwards.
One more time, louder in the growing darkness.
Quick glance, one foot in front of the other.
Hurry now. Try not to be the last.

What lies behind?

A turn of a head,
for just a split second.
There’s that look. Held.
So steady and sure.
Strong, yet seemingly pure. 

Not a flutter, nor a falter.
Piercing, enchanting,
understanding, judging?
What lies behind?
Is it something kind? 

Your stomach starts to churn,
so very nearly knotted.
A tiny slice of doubt. Niggling.
And so you look elsewhere,
anywhere but there.

The fleeting moment flown.
Long lost before it started.
And so you sit and wonder,
what did they see?
And once again, off you flee.