The Glass Identity of Being Ordinary

Once upon a time, there was girl who dreamed of being loved, respected and thought of as extraordinary. She thought if she just got noticed and admired by a certain big number of people--it would make them respect her and understand her and value her.

Then, this girl was slapdash-ed with reality and her belief system shattered into unsalvageable pieces. Some would call that growing up and the solid bitterness of reality. She broke down, because nothing made sense. The more people she met, the more she realised being "special" was not a tag that benefitted her that much... Because the people she met turned out to be magically special, and she loved that about them. And suddenly... She didn't think being extraordinary was something that belonged just to her, and instead of feeling dejected, she discovered she loved all these commonly extradordinary people.

The cashier at the bakery she loved, who always gave her free cake pops.

The Vet who picked up her phone at 12 in the night, because her puppy was sick.

The friends who caressed her hair softly as she cried about life.

Her mother who helped her pick herself up after sobs that broke her.

The kindness of strangers that made her feel alive.

Sisters who helped her see the truth and not believe the convoluted version of herself that mean voice in her head kept whispering she was.

The people who were kind on the daily, who didn't wait for a spotlight to shine for them to want to be kind.

These were people who were so magically special she couldn't believe they weren't "great" or considered "great" rather--only because their name might not go down in history under fame's dingy umbrella.

So, the girl decided, she would sing about these magical people, who made her feel alive, who made her feel seen and good and at peace.

She understood that she might never have the numbers, but ultimately, it was never really supposed to be about that. That is the reality of making art, or being alive. She understood that she was the only one who could ease that ache in her, no number of people would really ever be enough if the number was the thing she was chasing.

She understood the beauty of knowing and having a few people in her life who she could always depend on and love, instead of having a hundred more people--with none of them ever really caring about her.

She understood that the increase in number of people, if that was a want, would lead to doom, because as the number of people would increase? so would the versions of her in their heads, and if the people pleasing is what she aimed to accomplish--she'll die aching.

So she decided to set it in stone--this lesson of adulthood. That numbers and fame would not bring her peace... Maybe it would be different for other people but she couldn't separate the idea of fame and the fact that her worth depended on the number of people who could acknowledge her existence. She didn't think she was better than any one else, nor was anyone who didn't have the numbers worse-- she deserved respect--with or without the numbers.

She was an artist, and she deserved the respect, even though the awards and the acknowledgement and the fame was far away from her. It wouldn't stop her now--from wanting what she knew she deserved right now-- respect and kindness.

That was the lesson she repeated to herself, in hopes of it seeping into her very bones, into the very blood that was made from her, of her and for her.

That you are worthy of respect and kindness always, no matter what the world tells you.

That I am worthy of it too, no matter how late the numbers come, if they ever come at all.