Since I’ve really become serious about pursuing a career in writing, there’s this thing I do where I think about what my memoir would be like. Specifically, if I had to write it this second. When I think about it, I start to feel like it would be so ridiculously uneventful that it ends up making me feel sort of sad. Nevertheless, I decided to write about it, and this is the result.
Whenever I’m feeling discouraged, I find myself thinking, “none of this really matters.”
I hope that it will make me feel better.
And it never has.
It almost makes me feel worse.
Because I hate thinking that nothing matters.
I WANT it to matter.
I want those remarkable memories.
But I feel so terribly unremarkable.
Like I’m just another star in the sky.
Without a name,
Or a constellation.
Like another face in a crowd, or another tree in the forest.
I feel so terribly,
terribly,
unremarkable.
But other times I can understand that the things that matter don’t have to be remarkable.
They can be anything.
Or everything.
Or nothing.
So today I looked at the night sky
And I found a random star,
And I thought,
You are so terribly,
terribly,
remarkable.
