I don’t believe in luck anymore.
Bad or good.
I used to believe in pennies and four-leaf clovers and horseshoes and rabbit feet, spilt salt and broken mirrors and Friday the 13ths.
I even kept a jar of Luck on a shelf to save for a day when I needed it most, though in retrospect I probably should have found a bottle that distinguished itself as the good sort.
It worked, in a way, which was impressive considering how little I paid for it.
But I changed my mind.
It’s not that simple. It’s all tied up in choices and chances and paths taken regardless of what kinds of cats cross them. Luck can only get you so far, good or bad.
Though I still believe fortune favors the bold, no matter what they keep in their jars.
About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.