I always had this feeling growing up, that I was going to be more than my surroundings. I wanted to be more than the middle class family from the suburbs of Saint Paul Minnesota that I grew up in. I always thought I’d be the one that made it.
Somewhere along the line I started to lose faith. I started believing that I was that average middle class american that my parents raised me to be, and to this day I have not figured out what I’m destined to do that will pull me out of my average slump.
Since the first love story I read and the first heart-wrenching film I watched, I always thought that I would be important; I always thought that I would be somebody. I wanted to die as a person that people knew. I wanted to be someone whose name people heard and remembered with pride. Lately, I haven’t felt that so much.
I feel like all my talents rest in things that aren’t considered real skills. Whether it be drawing, cooking, or writing; the things that I’m greatest at will never be something that people remember. I think a lot of people think this way.
We’re born into families, religious or not, that suggest that destiny or god or whatever being we believe in has a greater plan for us; that we’re destined for greatness. No one ever tells you that you might be one of the 999,999 people out of 1,000,00 that isn’t. You might be the person that lives and dies without a second glance.
No one tells you that you aren’t special.
I wish I would have been brought up to know that I’m nobody in particular. With the understanding that I’m not special, that I’ll probably live my whole life doing nothing significant and die not being remembered. This is the norm. People need to stop feeding their children this bullshit about being one in a million and dreaming big, and being special.
You are not special.
You are the 2 or 50 or 100 or 50,000 or 999,999 of a million that will live their life and never be remembered. You are average. You are nothing.