I am a special snowflake

The other day as I was getting ready for work for what felt like the ten-thousandth time, I sighed and remarked, “The bloom has come off the rose.” My wife asked, “What, from [your fairly new job]?” “No,” I replied, “from my whole life.”

My shrink says I’m depressed and wants to give me drugs. I laughed and told him it’s not going to happen. He said I have two options: I can choose to feel better or not.

The more I’ve thought about it, the more I think I’m starting to agree with him. Yes, I can choose to feel better or I can choose to continue feeling like shit. But a pill just isn’t the answer, at least not for me. You see, if you’ve read any of my latest posts, you’d have noticed that I have been obsessing over magic lately. Or, more precisely, the loss of magic.

You’d think that for a [__] year old man, that I would have grown out of it by now. The illusion, however, that I was a special snowflake persisted. I don’t think it’s all that uncommon either. But that morning when I remarked that the bloom had come off the rose was perhaps the first time that I accepted the brutal reality that my magic is dead. Maybe I am a special snowflake; maybe I am exquisite; but I only look special to the other special snowflakes in my immediate vicinity, and even then only to a select few of them. To most of them and to anyone more than a meter away, I look like all the other snowflakes. There’s nothing exquisite or special about me.

The thought left me depressed for a day or so. As I mentioned before, it is a terrible thing to be stripped of magic.

On the other hand, maybe the terrible thing occurred much earlier, in the act of thinking there was magic in the first place. There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so. And the trouble with thinking is that sometimes your thoughts don’t match up well against reality, and it is in reality that we all eventually find ourselves.

Correcting my vision, despairing not that my reality did not match my illusion, but rather that my illusion did not match my reality, is oddly freeing. Yes, there is no magic, but perhaps magic wasn’t my floor. Perhaps it was my ceiling.


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