Do we not all believe that we are in some way special; that we are meant for things greater than the humdrum of paper-mining; that we have something hidden in us, hitherto undiscovered, which manifests little by little, yet unappreciated by everyone. We tell ourselves that the passage of time shall nurture these promising seeds, and eventually we shall rise, pierce the doubtful sky like an ambitious redwood. Of course, we must work hard ourselves; for if there were anything that could dampen the thrust of talent, it would surely be indolence.
But have we been too eager to prestige, to the distinguishing of ourselves from the plebeian lot? – such that we overstate our capabilities. “There is in fact nothing special about myself. Everyone is equally capable, equally talented. But how ever can I live knowing that I shall eventually disappear into the marching lines of laborers; that nothing else shall be recognized of my life other than the diligence with which I played my role, my mediocre role? No happiness can be found in such savorless life. Thus, I must create my own happiness! I must for the moment cast aside reality and conjure an illusion of a capable, talented self. I must deceive myself.
Indeed, I am special, and I am meant for great things.”