Time has been a stern disciplinarian in teaching me that I'm not special or unique — except in the way that everyone is.
It's been a shock to learn that my profound thoughts and experiences mean little to others.
My life is filled with minutiae: sleeping, eating, showering, dressing, shopping, reading, chit-chatting, exercising…
Like everyone, I engage in non-stop internal conversations about the important things I should be doing that drown out my actual activities and conversations.
The important things are always just around the corner.
Tragic stories are everywhere.
People younger and with more to offer than me die in freak accidents — sinkholes, undertows, falling objects…
People older than me suffer from living longer than the ones who brought them joy.
There are magical stories about people born attractive and talented enough to walk red carpets. Just attending such an event would be a highlight for me.
I watch videos of animals and tribes entertaining others by simply living — oblivious to everything but themselves.
Our efforts at living industrious, morally and intellectually honest lives mean nothing to most — it's the surface that counts.
A few, who know nothing about us, feel compelled to critique us with unexamined ideas from their upbringing.
The critiques are usually so trivial and off-target, it takes awhile to sink in that they are actually referring to us.
We try to respond politely, but it is hard to stifle a yawn.
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