one of one hundred you’s

When we’re little, we are told that we are special. When we are medium-little, especially if we are artists, we tell OURSELVES that we are special, we cling to the things that set us apart, to the specifics of our narrative that make us compelling and unique.   I think a big part of growing up, like truly growing up, and I don’t mean paying your own rent / having your own health insurance, I mean reaching some semblance of emotional maturity — is accepting the fact that WE ARE IN FACT NOT UNIQUE. Sure, you grew up in a funeral home or in a military family or partially in Prague but guess what, SO DID A LOT OF OTHER HUMANS.  To grow up is to have the humility to accept this. There are things that make you special, sure, there is each moment of your life that you have uniquely inhabited,  but  there is no need to declare your preferences, to shout about your time abroad. You are a cog in the wheel, you are a part of a larger thing, you are just light, slowed down.

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