To Be Content with Mediocrity
By Kevin Wasden
It has taken me a long time to become content with mediocrity.
That is a lie. I am not content; there is no satisfaction in insignificance. The truth is that I am old, tired, and have merely surrendered to this inescapable sphere of unimportance that I occupy.
No, I am not content.
I am hopeless.
It’s not that I have never felt ambition’s tug.
I have cradled dreams in my arms, nourished and nurtured them, and watched as one-by-one they matured, wrinkled, and shriveled with the aches and pains of an inadequate existence, never developing into the marvelous creatures I had envisioned.
I have never reached greatness.
But I have tried.
Over and over again, I have stood tiptoe and scratched with my nails at the hatchway in the ceiling of my station, hoping that providence might open the passage before me into some higher echelon.
I have hoped in vain.
And so, I remain undistinguished, ordinary, good, but not good enough, forever lost somewhere in the middle, neither first nor last, neither the best nor the worst.
I am inescapably,