Little Poor Me 2

Wouldn’t you be me if you couldn’t be anyone else? Because I’d be you.

So do me a favor, and be me for a little bit, so I can be you for the same.

I remember the first thing I thought as a child. I know a lot of people don’t remember the first thing they ever thought — almost no one, in fact — but I do. I thought: This’ll be easy.

Everything seemed like it would go pretty well. There were no obvious difficulties in my way. What a child I was! Smart, and other things. All kinds of other things. Good things, one would think. But (and here’s the really key part) I was also nothing special.

Somebody should have told me, and I would say that it wasn’t fair if only for the fact that it was also boringly, and completely normal. It’s the way that it is. Nobody tells you that you’re just the same….same…same as everyone else; or, rather, the same as everyone else who is also the same.

They’re out there: the Differents: the Betters: the Ones Who Are Remembered. You’re not one of them. No, I’m projecting.  You may be. I’m not one of them. But what I know is that the you who aren’t is a small number of the you out there, because the special you is exactly that: the special you. The special isn’t common, because common isn’t special. It’s common. And common is dot dot dot common.

My chemicals are me, and I am my chemicals.

We are, all of us, chemicals and their attendant reactions. Nothing new, nothing novel, nothing to surprise the twenty-first century mind. You know what you are, because you’ve been told. By science. Science knows, friend, and it told you: you’re chemicals. So I embrace it. I embrace my chemicals. And, as I feel those chemicals limiting me, I try to find other chemicals that will make me better than I am.

But they don’t.

They just make me feel better than I am.

Isn’t that enough?

The answer is probably no, but it feels like a yes. A finger slid on a smooth pipe of stainless steel feels like an orgasm, but it isn’t. Two thumbs pressed hard against my temples feel like an idea, but they aren’t. Shutting my eyes so tight it hurts feels like seeing something new, and who knows? Maybe it is.

Nothing gets better that hasn’t changed. Nothing changes. Entropy is a lie. Things don’t fall apart: They were always broken.

It’s okay, though. We’re too small enough to notice.

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