A taste of greatness

The transition from disgusting smugness to crippling self-doubt is almost always disorienting. Unless you are already familiar with the feeling, in which case there is nothing but numb resignation. Here we go again.

The cycle usually begins with unexpected boost in confidence. Perhaps someone "liked" your Facebook status, or you stumbled across yet another article on Paris Hilton's escapades. Their generous displays of support convince you that you are worth that thumbs-up on the screen, and their flagrant stupidities somehow allow you to forgive your own faults. You pull out your victories and lovingly polish them. For a moment, you are inconquerable. You are certain you will write a national bestseller, save the children, and change the world, all before the age of 21.

Of course, this lasts fleetingly. A self-image built on external sources has limited warranty, and you are inevitably reminded that you are merely mortal. That you cannot spell "occasionally" without using spellcheck, that you find basic math challenging, and that you are not a child prodigy. (It doesn't help that there are child prodigies out there.)Your newly acquired optimism and confidence crumble like the cheap wafers you find at supermarkets, the kind that flake all over your couch even though the packaging reads "crumb-free." Even the simplest tasks begin to seem like insurmountable obstacles, and you wonder how you could have possibly imagined accomplishing anything more complicated than brushing your teeth. Everything you write, everything you draw, everything you think seems worthless. No matter how desperately you flounder, you cannot cling to that energy that bubbled inside you only a moment ago, an almost irrepressible feeling that made you want to go out into the world and do good for mankind. Now you just want to rummage through the refrigerator and each whatever you happen to find. Even you are surprised by how much you despise yourself at that very moment, now that the effects of self-delusion have worn off. The only book you will ever write is an address book, and because you have tasted greatness, you are all the more bitter for it.