Note to the Existentialist self #12

The thing that scares me the most is that my life may turn out as something so, so common. Like at the end of this unlivable life, I might look back at the traceless trail I’ve left in my wake and realize I could’ve not done any better, but neither could have anyone. The same difference.

Does it bother me?
Less than it should. More than it shouldn’t.
Because every morning I ask myself the same question, what can I do today to make less of a difference, what can I contribute to further my unbecoming…
And after staring out the cheerless dawn, I realize that there is no me, there can’t be a me. There can’t be a unbecoming, if I’m ‘conscious’ of it.

Then I sigh as I rinse my coffee mug, and pick my bag for work. How utterly banal. How common this uncommonness.


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