I don't have a thing I own that defines me and I don't do a thing in this world unique or significant enough to distinguish me.
What a thing to say. What a thing to know.
And yet. Yet I know it true. And yet. Yet I exist. Autonomously and distinctly.
Yet you can tell me apart from that other girl who does not posess fascinating objects or have distinguishable talents.
The world is filled with us. There are more of us than there are of you. People who knit and sew and bike and wear pretty things and buy trinkets and are on their way from coffee to a drink. Score of people who almost regularly do many things averagely.
We are not experts, we are barely hobbyists. We are not stupid. We look nice, to be hideous is to be extraordinary. We seem reasonable. To not is it's own quality.
Very few of us have an amazing collection of robots or can draw a pretty picture or even inspire one.
And yet I suspect everyone, somewhere, deep inside them has the smallest aspiration to inspire. Maybe just inspire their children, maybe their lover, maybe their parents or that sad man walking down the street who could really use some inspiration.
And we all like to feel special, we all suspect we might be unique.
It makes you really wonder about the nature of such things. How each of us finds a way to matter and what mattering truly is in the end.