[Intro] If you never try, you can't fail. Simple, right? So why does that sentence sound less like wisdom and more like a grave? [Verse 1] Why should I? I've already calculated the probable result. Effort multiplied by uncertainty, divided by what I've got left to lose. And time isn't refundable. That's the part nobody mentions. You don't get the hours back for every failed intention. They say, “Just give it a chance.” Chance? I've watched people gamble years on dreams that never answered. Watched ambition turn to bitterness, watched confidence get severed. Watched somebody finally attempt the thing they feared forever just to hear: “See? I told you you'd fail.” So why would I? [Hook] If you never try, you can't fail. If you never sail, you can't sink. If you never speak, nobody can tell you what they think. If you never love, you can't lose. If you never build, nothing breaks. If you never chase the future, you can't watch it slip away. So I'll stay here. Safe here. Motionless and unafraid. Because if nothing ever happens, nothing ever has to change. [Verse 2] Everybody contributes to the architecture of surrender. “Be realistic.” “Know your limits.” “Maybe later.” “Try something safer.” Advice so innocuous it almost sounds benevolent, until you realize every warning has another little consequence. One voice says, “Don't embarrass yourself.” Another says, “You probably aren't ready.” Another says, “What's the point?” Eventually the voices don't even need to speak. You become them. Now every opportunity arrives already rejected. Every possibility gets mentally dissected. “What if I fail?” “What if I waste my time?” “What if I sacrifice everything and discover I was never good enough?” And that's enough. [Verse 3] So I don't audition. Don't submit. Don't apply. Don't begin. I preserve my potential by refusing to test it. Because potential is beautiful when it's hypothetical. Untouched. Unmeasured. Unproven. It can still be anything. The moment I attempt it, it becomes something specific— something capable of disappointing me. And I would rather carry the vague discomfort of “maybe” than the definitive weight of “I tried and it wasn't enough.” [Bridge] That's the cruelest part. Failure doesn't have to defeat you. Sometimes society just teaches you to defeat yourself before you ever leave the starting line. Then everybody calls it maturity. [Verse 4] I call it learned helplessness wearing intellectual clothing, a sophisticated vocabulary for quietly avoiding motion. “I understand the probability.” “I've considered the consequences.” “I've rationalized the outcome.” Listen carefully— that's not always wisdom. Sometimes it's fear with an education. Sometimes it's exhaustion pretending to be logic. Sometimes “I know I'll fail” really means: “I don't think I can survive being disappointed again.” And maybe that's why I never try. Not because I don't want it. Because I want it too much. [Hook] If you never try, you can't fail. If you never sail, you can't sink. If you never speak, nobody can tell you what they think. If you never love, you can't lose. If you never build, nothing breaks. If you never chase the future, you can't watch it slip away. So I'll stay here. Safe here. Motionless and unafraid. And maybe that's a victory— if victory means never giving life the opportunity to take anything away. [Outro] Years pass. The dream stays exactly where I left it. Perfect. Untouched. Impossible to disappoint. And one day someone asks, “Why didn't you ever try?” I could tell them about probability. About time. About failure. About everything I had to lose. But the honest answer is much smaller. Much uglier. Much easier. I was afraid. So I called it wisdom. And I never tried. Because if you never try— you can't fail. And if you never fail— you can spend your whole life wondering whether you could've succeeded.
