The last thing I wanted to think about was myself.
I hated white noise, the constant drone of which eerily used to scare me. That's why I loved winters - it cloaked all bits of white noise. The stunned silence enhanced the visual imagery created by puffs of mist seen through glass windows made fuzzy with morning dew.
This trip was a sweet revisit to my past. Those irrational paroxysms of energy were back. I would be woken up again in middle of the night by frisson tingling my nerves, and an urge to do something, anything. The biting winter kept that urge in check. Only this time, it came with the realization of my mediocrity.
My not-so-recent history is largely devoid of interactive elements. There lies no mention of social validation, memorable moments, intimate confessions, pep talks or adolescent curiosity. All I remember is the intensity of things. The last thing I wanted to think about was myself. I sought comfort through vicarious means. This was the comfort I felt in the mild susurrus of people's voices.
Like everyone else, I wanted to escape mediocrity. I spent years in high hopes of accomplishing the same. What was it that made masterminds so smart? Maybe they had different neural pathways in their brains. Maybe they had a higher number of active neurons. Maybe they had an extremely efficient feedback learning system that honed their mental acumen every time they evaluated something. The brain, as they say, is plastic. It can be molded. An immediate about-face of perspectives is possible, and a gradual one can be executed successfully.
I grew up to realize I was merely an aberration, that odd glitch in a smooth graph. I wasn't ahead of the curve, but behind it. We lacked the incisive insight of savants, but filled the void with rich experiences and consumption of knowledge. We deluded ourselves with exaggerated positive self-evaluation, and sought validation from our social circle. That's how we dealt with the harsh truth that our lives were engulfed in ineluctable mediocrity.
There was something soothing in the chattering sound of burning wood. The flickering flames of fire were similar to darkness. There was nothing to focus on - everything was amorphous. That's what made it so comforting.
I loved winters for various reasons. My body responded to physical exertions better and faster. I could think clearly. I gained more from my high BMR and suffered less. I had almost forgotten the uncanny feeling of going for a run before sunrise, and watching my shadow quiver in the thick pellets of fog suspended in air whenever a vehicle whizzed past. I loved watching my fingers go numb by gusts of chilly wind. In moments of such extremities, in kicks of dopamine and thrills of adrenaline, maybe I got a taste of how it felt like not being a mediocre. Maybe.
So much for a middling life.
I hated white noise, the constant drone of which eerily used to scare me. That's why I loved winters - it cloaked all bits of white noise. The stunned silence enhanced the visual imagery created by puffs of mist seen through glass windows made fuzzy with morning dew.
This trip was a sweet revisit to my past. Those irrational paroxysms of energy were back. I would be woken up again in middle of the night by frisson tingling my nerves, and an urge to do something, anything. The biting winter kept that urge in check. Only this time, it came with the realization of my mediocrity.
My not-so-recent history is largely devoid of interactive elements. There lies no mention of social validation, memorable moments, intimate confessions, pep talks or adolescent curiosity. All I remember is the intensity of things. The last thing I wanted to think about was myself. I sought comfort through vicarious means. This was the comfort I felt in the mild susurrus of people's voices.
Like everyone else, I wanted to escape mediocrity. I spent years in high hopes of accomplishing the same. What was it that made masterminds so smart? Maybe they had different neural pathways in their brains. Maybe they had a higher number of active neurons. Maybe they had an extremely efficient feedback learning system that honed their mental acumen every time they evaluated something. The brain, as they say, is plastic. It can be molded. An immediate about-face of perspectives is possible, and a gradual one can be executed successfully.
I grew up to realize I was merely an aberration, that odd glitch in a smooth graph. I wasn't ahead of the curve, but behind it. We lacked the incisive insight of savants, but filled the void with rich experiences and consumption of knowledge. We deluded ourselves with exaggerated positive self-evaluation, and sought validation from our social circle. That's how we dealt with the harsh truth that our lives were engulfed in ineluctable mediocrity.
There was something soothing in the chattering sound of burning wood. The flickering flames of fire were similar to darkness. There was nothing to focus on - everything was amorphous. That's what made it so comforting.
I loved winters for various reasons. My body responded to physical exertions better and faster. I could think clearly. I gained more from my high BMR and suffered less. I had almost forgotten the uncanny feeling of going for a run before sunrise, and watching my shadow quiver in the thick pellets of fog suspended in air whenever a vehicle whizzed past. I loved watching my fingers go numb by gusts of chilly wind. In moments of such extremities, in kicks of dopamine and thrills of adrenaline, maybe I got a taste of how it felt like not being a mediocre. Maybe.
So much for a middling life.
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