The weight is so heavy. From birth. Expectations of performance. Delivery. Stardom. I don’t even have children, but I dream about them being amazing. Better than everyone else. Vikings of the modern era.


Spectacular.


Call it aptitude (25lbs). Call it talent (50lbs). Call it a gift (1,000lbs). Call it genius (1ton). It’s a burden carried lightly, at best. I believe that a lot of talented-gifted-geniuses guise the weight of being spectacular in a shroud of routine, of diligence or servitude. Serving your variety of spectacular can gain the greatest reward. For those who things come easily, there needs to be work. The best disguise for tricking yourself into not having the weight of being spectacular is to downgrade it to routine and efficiency. Like swimming gives us weightlessness, we still put forth the effort into each stroke, however unburdened, ever so slightly, by the weight of the world.

I always dream of being better than myself. Yet, I don’t know how to achieve this superior version of myself. I keep trying though. Testing the waters of where I can gain accolades. It’s actually quite masochistic and perpetuates a melancholy atmosphere like Linus Van Pelt, so I drag my perceived unspectacularness around me like a weighted fishing lure, waiting for something spectacular to attach itself to my line.

But what does it all mean? Being spectacular. The gamut of spectacular runs from the precious mother who documents and projects your every move upon the fridge. Magnetized. To the self-loathing, never is good good-enough perfectionist, to the focused and driven minds of the eccentric oft not recognized savant, to the heavily laureled and praised mediocre. Point being: if spectacular is a state of mind, is it our own perception that needs to change? The ever existential crisis of expectations.



I think the most self aware are those who constantly question who it is they are. Redefining. Because ‘spectacular’ is never enough. It’s never good enough. It’s rough. But we endure the mundane. For it’s not for us to decide the fate of perceived spectacularity. The saddest part of being (not being) spectacular is that you’ll never be anything you percieve because your achievements will always lie in the eye of the beholder and we are not the beholden.

Ungrateful bastards are we.