To thine own self be true.
And if you do, then you can’t be false to anyone, least of all, yourself.
And it’s not even a matter of being false. It’s a matter of not having the tenacity to live up to the life you deserve.
Let’s face it, you’re nothing special.
You’re certainly not better than any of the thousands of people you are going to pass by today. The faceless men and women going to and from work with great excitement and furry.
You are just like them.
Filled with identical, but somewhat dormant hopes and dreams, wishes, prayers, groans, moans, but the exact number of hours, each and every day.
To the millisecond.
But you’ll probably object. Object, because pushing back on this point is far easier than becoming the true you.
The anonymous men and women you pass every day, all face the same challenges and struggles. They pay their taxes. They consume food on the run. They grow old, far too young. They dread the darkness of winter and anticipate the warm heat of summer.
This is exactly why there is absolutely nothing special about who you are.
In a sense.
You’re just a tiny part of a comfort obsessed majority. A progressive, pleasure seeking collective. A human race that has traded in the vision of life full of limitless possibilities, for an illusionary life filled with conflict and scarcity.
If today, you continue to stand firm with your industrial, corporate brethren, then you probably deserve nothing less and nothing more, than what you can win or horde for yourself, in whatever time you’ve got left.
You better go out and gather your nuts.
I hear it’s going to be a bitch of a winter.
But in a deeper sense, and the truth of the matter, everything that you are and everything you were intended to do is special.
You are a special snowflake.
A very, very, beautiful snowflake, and I use that phrase only because it irritates every molecule of my body, and springs forth vomit to the precipice of my lips.
I use it because I need to begin to master my words.
Without doubt. Without question.
Without a moments hesitation, you are a special snowflake.
Just accept it, and get on with it.
The person you should be. The person you were born to be. The person you have to be.
A dying woman, when she is ready to reconcile her life, rarely regrets the things that she had done, because at some point, when you get older, you simply come to terms with all of your silliness and childish ways.
You only regret what you have failed to do.
Failed to do.
To be or not to be.
To live a life that feels right, or to exist in a life built for someone else.
Dreams are dangerous.
They lead you to the edge of an abyss and as Nietzsche so wonderfully wrote, when you summon the courage to stare at the abyss, the abyss always stares back at you.
It cripples you with fear.
Fear of what they will think. Fear of what they will do. Fear of what who you are.
Fear of what it will mean. Fear of the unknown. The undiscovered. Fear of failure. The very thing that will take you back, way back, when we you were a little boy on the playground, with your pants down, unable to hide, from the menacing eyes and pointing fingers of your unforgiving classmates.
They are gone.
You’re not seven anymore.
It’s time to be yourself.
It is your turn.
Time to be.
To be that very special snowflake.