It’s probably nothing but folly, or paranoia, or the very human tendency to fear though probably unnecessary, perhaps unnecessary?, hopefully unnecessary; but I do. I fear.
It cripples me to no end — rendering me incapable of speech, thought, sense. If I wouldn’t be anything much more than I currently am, does it matter anymore what I do? Does it matter anymore what I aspire to be? Does it matter anymore what I want?
Because that’s the fear.
The fear of being inconsequential. Unremarkable. Forgettable. The fear that comes only with the concrete and final understanding that this? The thing you see? Well, this.
Is.
It.
I have neither mystery nor novelty, nothing to keep people on their toes, and nothing to make me stick in their minds. Rarely I strike gold, and I make witty comebacks or funny jokes or insightful pieces of advice, but most of the time, which is more usual than most, more always than not, I compare to blunt pencils halfway through exams — you’d very much like having something else to write with, but you won’t actively wish to discard what you have… mostly because of the convenience of knowing that there’s always something to use; and yet when sharpened pencils come along, it is as if the blunt ones never were (and never are) there. This doesn’t make you a bad person, because it’s normal to strive to want better things.
It, however, makes me feel like I’m dispensable. And while it’s not warranted (yet) or proven (at all), I still get bothered and scared and sad.
And scared.
And sad and scared.
And sad.
I’m pretty unremarkable. And much like this piece, you’re going to forget me as soon as time will let you.
I’m scareder because I don’t think I mind as much.
Of perpetual finds 