the art of being the least.

not a single coherent carriage of words seems to emerge from my train of thought, and yet, here i find myself, longing to express something of substance – anything, truly, that might elevate me from the monotony of my own existence. i am engulfed by a disquieting fear, a profound dread that i may indeed be the most mundane human being to have ever existed.

surely, i am not alone in this – others, too, must grapple with such feelings at least a dozen times within the span of a week, no ? if you are curious about the oddities of my writing style, it is merely the consequence of typing this from my phone, and for reasons unbeknownst even to myself, i have developed the habit of placing a space before my question marks. but alas, i digress, and in doing so, stray from any semblance of meaningful reflection.

all of my pastimes are incredibly common, quite pedestrian one might even say. i suppose this could be construed as advantageous, given the increased likelihood of encountering conspecifics (others who share similar pursuits.) yet here i sit, contemplating whether i should attend the crochet gathering tomorrow. certainly, i find immense pleasure in crocheting; i could easily immerse myself in it for hours on end. but can i, in all honesty, declare my love for it, when my skill may not yet rise to the level of genuine mastery ?

is possessing merely adequate competence in a given pursuit sufficient reason to profess one’s interest in it ? throughout my life, i have been governed by the notion that without mastery, expressing enthusiasm for anything invites only scorn. i claim to enjoy cinema, yet i have not even seen all the foundational classics. very well, i profess an interest in romance films, but how can that be, when i have not watched even a single screwball comedy ? fine, i declare myself a fan of star wars, but having never read any of the books, can i truly make such a claim ?

as i continue to pour out my thoughts, i absentmindedly dismiss a notification on my phone – a message from the group chat, inquiring about the color of yarn i intend to bring to the crochet meet-up. yet, my mind is consumed with doubt. are my granny squares truly square enough for me to claim an affinity for crochet ? do i possess sufficient knowledge of patterns to respond confidently, and am i skilled enough to form a genuine connection with these seasoned crocheters ?

and so, here i sit, confronting a truth i can no longer evade: the only thing i seem to excel at is being consistent at falling short of adequacy. i am neither an accomplished crocheter nor a cinephile with any substantive knowledge of the craft of filmmaking, nor am i even a sufficiently capable writer to justify composing these very words.

in a manner not entirely devoid of melancholy, i have come to terms with the reality that i may never possess the proficiency or insight necessary to comfortably proclaim my genuine interest in anything. i have, instead, cultivated a strange acceptance of my role as the least compelling person in any given space – the one least invested in a pastime, skill, interest, and the one least informed about any art form.

this art of being “the least” has housed my being for so long that i often forget it is not, in fact, a skill, a passion, or even a pursuit. i forget, time and again, that this supposed art is not a home and it does not provide me with refuge, nor does it shelter me from anything. it consumes me like a parasite, until i find myself preferring to do nothing at all rather than risk becoming moderately competent at something.

there is not a single thing in this world for which i feel brave or deserving enough to openly declare my fondness. even now, i hesitate to articulate this very mindset, questioning why i should burden others with my thoughts on my own dullness, especially when there may be someone out there who perceives themselves as even more dull than i.

am i truly worthy of human connection when the sole bond i feel i share with others is that we belong to the same species ? what distinguishes me, what grants me the right to exist among those who fully immerse themselves in their passions, when my singular talent seems to be the desire to excel, without ever truly attaining it ?

chuck klosterman once remarked,

“art and love are the same thing: it’s the process of seeing yourself in things that are not you.”

and though i perceive art in nearly every conceivable interest, skill, or endeavor, i am plagued by the unsettling thought that i am unworthy of professing my love for it – just as i often feel unworthy of professing love for my own soul.

if i were to confess my love for anything, it would imply that my soul is more than a mere mechanism urging me to eat breakfast each morning. it would necessitate an acknowledgment that my soul possesses passion, love, and, above all, drive – qualities i am not entirely certain i recognize within myself, let alone am capable of admitting i possess.

i never harbored a desire to excel above others; rather, i simply yearned to be something. yet in the pursuit of this vague aspiration, the sum of my efforts has amounted to little more than a scattered collection of fragmented knowledge in various domains – pieces that, when assembled, form a messy pile devoid of everything i tried to be. all to build a vile medley of absolutely nothing.

throughout history, recognition and reward have always favored those who are the “most” in some capacity, whether in virtue or in vice. meanwhile, the majority of humanity settles into a state of mediocrity, yet i fear even that classification eludes me. i have become so deeply entrenched in the art of consistently being the least that i struggle to find anything in which i can confidently assert competence or genuine interest.

yet, by immersing myself in the art of being the least, i find a peculiar beauty in the mundane, in those details most are incapable of even imagining. perhaps it is because, in the most vapid and ordinary of things, i see a reflection of myself. and so, i remain here, adrift, unable to forge human connections due to the overwhelming weight of my own inferiority, while simultaneously discovering profound beauty in the simplest, most unremarkable aspects of existence.

perhaps i am plain, perhaps i am the least, and will forever remain so. yet, if even i can discern beauty in the uniform texture of low-quality parchment, if i can discover art in the very notion of being the least, then perhaps, in time, i may also uncover the beauty within the art of simply being me, (even if that means i am the least).