A letter from my most confused self thus far in life
Dear Reader (or future self),
Not really sure how to begin, so I’ll start by stating that I’m not really sure how to begin. I just deleted an entire paragraph that I typed out because I became disenchanted with and doubtful about the necessity of what I was trying to say. In fact, now I’m struggling to even remember why I wanted to write this in the first place, and in my mind it’s dissolving from an inspired manifesto of quarterlife angst into a jumbled pile of cries for attention, thinly veiled in pretention and the kind of depressing prose that Poe might have written if he were a 21st century teenager with a high speed internet connnection, an entitlement complex, and too much time on his hands. Such is the way these attempts usually go. I write, consumed with a sudden fire to finally express myself in a tangible way so that I might read it later and feel like I’ve contributed something of value to the world, only to find the disappointing textual equivalent of a pity party, and a stale, uni-dimensional one at that.
Today the quest begins anew, and though I can still feel the urge to hit “cancel” and give up creeping along my spine from the pit of my stomach to the part of my brain that makes decisions regarding tumblr posts, I’m going to endeavor to at least give this one the chance of surviving past conception.
Lately, I’ve been struggling with a lot of emotions brought on by an awareness of inevitably losing my lifelong battle with inferiority, among innumerable other things (these may be the subjects of later blog posts). This tendency towards perfectionism is a quality of my personality that I at once treasure and despise. My dogged determination to be the best at absolutely everything has enabled me to accomplish a number of “impressive” achievements, for which I have been verbally patted on the back by friends, family, and assorted colleagues.
However, as anyone who has ever attempted an impossible task before knows, to try to live up to these unreachable standards will only ever lead to dissatisfaction. Why I continue to try to do so is somewhat of a mystery to me, considering I am as aware as anyone that this is a preposterous goal. Regardless, I often try, consciously and unconsciously, to embody the types of idealized roles seen in movies and novels, hoping that this will at last provide me with some validation of the fact my existence can transcend the ordinary and that there is some purpose to my life other than to be a bit player in the compelling drama of someone else’s story.
There are outstanding individuals in the world who, through hard work, or good fortune, or whatever, seem to be endowed with some mysterious quality that makes them “special.” I’m not talking about the kind of special that your mom or your lover says you are, I’m talking about real, perceptible, “Specialness” that truly sets someone apart from the rest of the pulsating heartbeats that make up the population of the world. Call it genius, heredity, privilege, or whatever else you like, some people lead lives which change the world, and others just go on existing. I mean, think about it. There are something like 6,997,942,791 people alive at the moment I am writing this, and they cannot all possibly be exceptional, because that defies the definition of the word. I feel, at the core of my being, that I am doomed to be one of the majority and that Special Something feels missing but I don’t know where or when I lost it, what it was, or if I ever had it in the first place.
The fact that I feel this deeply disgusts me.
Unavoidably, once I start thinking about this, I realize that I, like most other privileged, well fed, able bodied, not homeless, educated, sane, stable, whole, free-thinking (I could go on ad nauseum with these so I’ll just stop now) individuals, am, for lack of a better word, truly blessed to be in my current situation. So why, then, can I not accept the fact that I have more than others could ever imagine and more, and that any time spent pitying myself for feeling insignificant is not only irrational, but indulgent and reprehensible. I know this, but I can’t bring myself to feel it.
Rather, when I consider my life and what I’ve accomplished with it, I feel a sickening lurch of emptiness, followed almost immediately by guilt. These are only intensified when I see a great work of art, a child piano prodigy on youtube, a stunning photograph taken by a thoughtful teen from a turbulent background, or a twentysomething tech genius whose preternatural knack for business has him or her rubbing elbows with the elite before even graduating from college. What have I done compared to people like this? What are my opinions worth when none of my thoughts are new or original? Is this “Specialness” earned or given?
Whatever the case, I feel overwhelmed by the challenge of living a meaningful life, but as far as I can tell, the only alternative is a wasted existence in a state of constant mediocrity, and if that’s the case, I’d rather have nothing.
E.
