a sense of mediocrity

i squirm. i fidget. i breathe and scratch my butt. i am attacked by that occasional realization that i am mediocre...

i sometimes wonder if it would be better to just suck at one thing, than simply be average. after all, if you are the worst, then you are effectively the best (at sucking at it). which translates to a superlative, and not just a vague representation of the lumpy portion of a normal bell curve.

i am raw. sour, when it should be sweet. sweet, when it should be bitter. i am tap. an unnoticed existence. neither chilly nor scalding, a faint presence registered solely by a drop of mercury.

i am at an age where i am young to the old, and old to the young. i have no place. no associations. no allegiances. i hit tennis balls with a flute. and manage to paint with a camera. my pen can speak portuguese to a dog who responds back in french. he is unmistakably sophisticated, however such a dog can never wear a tux.

i can market a truck. and i can deliver products using a television. all this while cooking dinner in a kitchen, on-board a cruise ship.

mediocrity is a termite-infested arrow which points imprecisely to the rain forest, where travelers are left to trample on roots and march on downtrodden paths. in it, the notes of incomplete symphonies flutter over enormous trees whose leaves are made of children's words. when the rains fall through the canopies overhead, these words spiral down to the soaked ground of water color and oil. if one manages to escape, then he'd have a whole field of passion to till.

for the meantime, i can bask in the glow of my trophy; my prize for being the best in being mediocre at so many things.