One of the reasons I created this blog was, ironically, to be extraordinary.
Ever since my friend killed himself, it feels like I will scorch my ass if I sit down and do nothing for too long. Peeking behind the abyssal curtain of mortality has made me neurotic. I create stuff to deny guilt, self-hatred, and life’s vanity.
I went on an overachieving rampage. I thought, I’ll show him how to live. I picked up my acoustic guitar after an eight-year hiatus, started writing music, and taught myself how to mix recordings. I graduated early and began a journey of self-education and discovery. I started writing. One hundred songs and sixty blog posts later, here I am.
But even after accumulating all of this uniqueness, it’s not enough. No matter how hard I try to be extraordinary, I will never live up to my mind’s expectations. The desire for extraordinariness implies that I lack it.
Self-help raises the pressure to be extraordinary. The Tim Ferriss digital-nomad brigade, Tony Robbins high-energy-extroverts, and self-actualization junkies urge you to live an extraordinary life. They tell you do adopt this practice, drink this tea, move to Thailand, become a life coach even though you have no life experience, and, well… start a blog. They cater to people like me who feel a sense of lack, who don’t like themselves as they are, who want to stick out to compensate.
So we do those things, thinking they will fill the void. But they only make it bigger.