I am not interesting — I swear, I’m not.

I listen to obscure music and read obscure books.

I enjoy popular art and watch popular movies.

I like everything and I hate everything.

Yet, I love nothing

Just like everybody else.

I am not interesting.

I am a young person with deep thoughts that haven’t fully formed.

I love politics and religion, but belong to none.

I question everything and I answer everything.

Yet, I know nothing

Just like everybody else.

I am not interesting.

I have not suffered, I have not loved.

I possess few friends and experience no drama.

I criticize everything and I defend everything.

Yet, I dream about nothing

Just like everybody else.

I am not interesting.

I am not incredibly beautiful or unbelievably smart.

I am not incredibly talented or unbelievably kind.

I am good enough, but that is probably as far as I could go.

Yet, maybe I am more.

Maybe, I’m some hidden treasure not yet found.

Maybe, I’m that girl people knew of in high school and passed by in college

Known for those deep thoughts that hadn’t fully formed,

That harsh demeanor that scared people away, but invited in the brave and the determined.

Maybe, I became something incredible—

Something important.

Maybe, I became someone worth remembering,

Worth a vague recollection decades later,

Even if only a clear face in the background.

Maybe, I did something worth recalling—

Was responsible for something life-changing.

Maybe, I didn’t.

Maybe, I burned out after high school,

Incapable of contributing some special quality.

With limited social skills and an overabundance of inexperience,

I was incapable of being unlike everybody else.

Maybe, I got sucked into a mediocre job and an unfulfilling life,

Lost in a sea of others just like me,

Destined to slowly fade away,

Alone and unknown.

But why does being known matter?

Why do the trivial emotions of the insignificant affect our fulfillment?

Have we ever really been known by any one person?

Would we even want to be known?

It’s not like we trust society with our true selves anyway.

Because

I

Am

Just

Like

Everybody

Else,

Uninteresting, but trying to prove otherwise—

Determined to prove otherwise

Because the alternative is just way too depressing.