a while ago, i had a epiphany while i indulged in recreational activities, preferably known as drugs. permit me to digress a bit, but getting high and not spilling your guts after (and i mean this quite literally) is such an experience. i felt all the feels, especially paranoia, but that’s a whole different story for another time.
back to my epiphany, i was having a conversation with my sister and i told her that i felt bad because i am not someone she could look up to, especially academically. it was a very strange thought to have, even more so because i do not care much for academic validation, but i think not putting enough effort in my school work is beginning to reflect badly, coupled with the nigerian university experience. and you know what i did? i thought about everything i have done in life and came to a couple of conclusions:
- i don’t have anything great going on for me.
- it is mostly my fault, because i thrive best in mediocrity.
this evening, i randomly remembered that i am a bloody writer, who hasn’t written anything in months. i abandoned my medium and deluded myself into starting a newsletter (don’t ask how that is going), but i have been everything but consistent with that too. i remembered how unwavering and annoyingly good i used to be with writing, mostly because i read someone’s article and thought to myself, “man, this kinda sucks”, but i had to be honest with myself. that person might not be as great a writer i believe i am, but they’re consistent enough, and that is all that matters. i am a lot of things, some good, some downright horrible, but i am also painfully self aware.
now, the solution to mediocrity seems straightforward : stop being mediocre. strive for more, do things you’re passionate about. consistency. and a bunch of other stuff, but they seem so… tiring. i so badly want to be the best at something, even if its just one thing. at some point, i thought writing was it for me. i dreamed/dreamt(?) of writing and publishing my own book once, or at least work in copywriting, but i don’t remember what happened to those dreams, or the ones i had before them, and the dreams i had yesterday.
so i’m just laying in a pool of mud, trying to figure out what exactly is out there for me that is mine and mine alone. and if someone asks me what i do, i won’t list the one million things i’m seemingly mediocre at. but till i figure that out, welcome to my world of averagensss. i’m a writer for tonight, and i’ll probably be something else tomorrow.
