People always assumed that every story starts with a protagonist that everyone is rooting for, it’s not wrong, but it’s just not the truth. Every story starts with a writer, just as it ends with a writer. A writer gives a story life, and in some very rare occasion, soul. The story of the writer is equally important as the story itself, just a lesser known one. The problem of being a writer is that you tell countless stories but none of which is about you, the greatest story that is yet to be told.
When I think about it, the story of a writer needed to be told not so much because it’s appealing, but because it made sense. It might not be as intriguing as any story out there, and it will leave a long lasting aftertaste of bitterness, simply because it is real life.
So here is me, telling you the story of me. I can promise you that it’s not interesting, or remotely worth reading, but it just is, and it’s the truth.
When I try to tell my story, I don’t know where to start, and I don’t know when to end, I could only guess. I won’t tell you how tall I am or where I came from, because that’s who I am on the surface, not what I am made of. I am made of the same stardust that made the Earth, I am made of the tears that I shed in the dark without anyone noticing, I am made of dreams that never end, I am made of everything and nothing, I am made of myself, I am me.
If I have to describe myself in a word, it would be disposable. I assumed that it is quite sad that I can summarize my whole life in one single word, a pathetic word nonetheless, but then I guess I get it, my life is sad too. Not in a way that I have been through way too much sorrow or seen my fair share of sadness, but one that’s so ordinary that you tune out halfway listening to it without realizing. So ordinary that sometimes, I tune out halfway living it without realizing. Disposable, seems like an odd choice, but an apt one. My whole life, I feel like I have no value, and people just throw me out of their lives the moment I become useless to them. I am many people’s friends, but I am no one’s best friend. Any slight changes and I am left with myself, with no one to ask for help. It’s like my existence does not make any difference or impact to anyone. No one will notice when I am not around, that’s how disposable I am. I am like a background noises to others. They are fine with it, but they will probably live better without it. Even when I am there, I feel like I am not there, I am within and without. Disposable, it is worse than replaceable. When you’re replaceable, at the very least you mean something, and when they let you go they will find someone to replace you. It’s different to be disposable, because they will just drop and leave you, and they didn’t even feel like they have lost something.
“Good, but not good enough” is how I would summarize my life in a sentence. I am painstakingly above average and that’s just not enough. You might think I am arrogant, for I have the audacity to call myself above average, when most of the people would have been satisfy being “above average”. True, and I know whatever I said would sounds like whining and moaning to you, but please bear with me. Do you know the name of the second man who walk the moon? Of course you don’t, just like no one cares who’s the second person who climb mount Everest or the second person in the family who goes to university. His name is Buzz Aldrin, the second man who walks the moon, remember his name. Just because he’s the second man to walks on moon doesn’t mean that he put in any less effort than Neil Armstrong. My story is the similar one. I have a brother who is 3 years older than me, and he is smart. If I am above average then he is unique. So no matter what achievement I make he would have achieve it three years ago. And to my parents, that’s not good enough.
In the past I have managed to keep up with him. I make sure that whatever he achieve, I will achieve it too, even though it is three years later. All until he lands a scholarship to study abroad in America. Somehow, my parents are under the assumption that I can manage the same thing, probably because I have always been able to keep up with my brother’s achievement. But I can’t, the competition is very brutal and I wasn’t as good as my brother. And just like that, I become “good but not good enough” for my parents. Being above average is that whatever group you put me in, I would stick out, but there will always be that one person that shines brighter than me, and I can only live under their shadows. No one cares about the ones that come second. There were time when I tried my best, hoping that I could finally be the one that’s good enough. But I was never good enough, and I will never be, because I was never meant for that. I would never be anyone great, but I can learn math faster than ordinary people, and I have gracefully accept my fate. Now I lurk in the dark and feast on the shadows. I may never be good enough for anyone, but I can be good enough for myself. I live on my own terms and I live with my own pace. I want and can be good, regardless it’s enough for anyone else. I am disposable, I am not good enough, and I am me, and that’s the story of me.
