you know, i think there must be, because my esophagus is feeling scratchy and it’s actually getting a bit difficult to breathe.
it must be all of the words i haven’t said. or rather, the words that i have said, but only to myself. only in my head, never out loud. whether it’s because i don’t want to say them or because no one wants to hear them doesn’t really matter, does it? either way, my words won’t be heard. they won’t be voiced, they’ll only be thought. only by me.
what is mediocrity, anyway? is it a failure? am i afraid of it? if i’m mediocre, does that mean i will be unhappy? conversely~ if i’m extraordinary, if i’m ‘excellent’ (dictionary ‘mediocre’ antonym) does this ensure happiness? is that fulbright scholar boy in botswana happier i am because of his apparent superhero powers? (intelligence, motivation, drive, etc.) is he happier than apple-picking-off-a-conveyer-belt rosita who never complains of anything except her aching back? happier than iván, office worker by day and yogi, meditator, mountain-climber and lover by night, the man who smiles and laughs more than anyone i’ve ever met?
you would never know, really, because how could one ever measure happiness when it is so terrifically different for each and every person?
but if you’re sick and tired of being sick and tired…
i think you know this already, but it’s time now for you to do something. you weren’t meant to be mediocre, of course you know that? so stand up and walk to the bathroom and look at yourself in the mirror, and keep on staring until you cry. you’ve seen a glimmer of an extraordinary, excellent person who looks remarkably like you, and you desperately want to meet her.
go forth.
just a few moments ago i was downstairs in the kitchen, making zucchini fritters (garlic, egg, sesame seeds, don’t wake the cat) and it was an enormous effort to not let my eyes close or my legs wobble.
so many questions, so few answers, and everything seems to happen at night as i try to fall asleep. if nothing else, at least the weight of my words pressing on my neck has been lifted, and my breaths come just a little easier.
what is mediocrity, anyway? is it a failure? am i afraid of it? if i’m mediocre, does that mean i will be unhappy? conversely~ if i’m extraordinary, if i’m ‘excellent’ (dictionary ‘mediocre’ antonym) does this ensure happiness? is that fulbright scholar boy in botswana happier i am because of his apparent superhero powers? (intelligence, motivation, drive, etc.) is he happier than apple-picking-off-a-conveyer-belt rosita who never complains of anything except her aching back? happier than iván, office worker by day and yogi, meditator, mountain-climber and lover by night, the man who smiles and laughs more than anyone i’ve ever met?
you would never know, really, because how could one ever measure happiness when it is so terrifically different for each and every person?
but if you’re sick and tired of being sick and tired…
i think you know this already, but it’s time now for you to do something. you weren’t meant to be mediocre, of course you know that? so stand up and walk to the bathroom and look at yourself in the mirror, and keep on staring until you cry. you’ve seen a glimmer of an extraordinary, excellent person who looks remarkably like you, and you desperately want to meet her.
go forth.
just a few moments ago i was downstairs in the kitchen, making zucchini fritters (garlic, egg, sesame seeds, don’t wake the cat) and it was an enormous effort to not let my eyes close or my legs wobble.
so many questions, so few answers, and everything seems to happen at night as i try to fall asleep. if nothing else, at least the weight of my words pressing on my neck has been lifted, and my breaths come just a little easier.
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