Life starts as a blank paper. From the moment I was born, my story was being written. The subjects covered early in life are mostly about things most other people would find menial: my parents, my likes, my dislikes, friends’ names, et cetera. I lived life passively, just letting things come to me. Those around me wrote my life’s novel, rather than myself. 

As I grew, I contracted Ambition. That insidious wretch and blessed saint told me that I was the author of my own tale, the captain of my own ship and destiny and planted the desire to write my own story that will be remembered. The disease to be unsatisfied with normalcy and the yearning for greatness.

From then onwards, the complacent life of an average person seemed like a blight. Here were people who wrote stories that no one cared to read. Their stories got shuffled into the backroom of life’s library and stuffed into a dim, dusty room where no one ever ventured, let alone came to read, with billions of lonely manuscripts. The untold stories of every man, woman, and child who lived and died without being remarkable. 

Were I to die today, I would be sorted in that same room. Mourned briefly, then lost to the annals of time and human existence. I can’t accept that. I must act, but how? How does one become a Great? What can I write, what can I do, to be enshrined in the glorious main room of life’s library? There’s too many options, too many possibilities that could all fail and leave me with nothing. What’s the best choice? Where does my story go? 

Reality is harsh and impatient, and as I age past adulthood, I feel the doors around me shutting, the framework of my story being written. Will it be great? Will it be boring? Have I already trapped myself in a pointless, dull tome that nobody would dare open? 

I sit terrified, weighing my options. Perhaps I spend ten years this sort of way doing that, then I will be in a prime position to be great or perhaps I’ll be no good, or even worse hate what I’m doing. What will my story look like then? Am I even writing my own story anymore? 

I have no great talent as far as I’m aware. I am pretty decent at a lot of things, but not great at anything. Will I discover something I’m great at? Is it already too late for that? Am I a normal person, just like everyone else? 

Please help. I don’t know what I’m doing, and every step forward I take seems like a step backwards. My story is full of hastily crossed-out sentences and blotted with white-out. I’ve switched to a pencil now since I can’t trust myself with a pen anymore. Everything was so much easier when I was a child. I could dream big and never worry about following up with my expectations. 

I am a rudderless boat set adrift in a vast ocean, desperately searching for shore. I can do nothing but sit and hope. My story continues to be written without me. Time stops for no one, but I still beg for it to slow, just for me. 

“I’ll write, I’ll write! Just give me a moment to sort things out!” 

After a moment, I reach for my pen, but it is gone. 

The uncaring specter of Time writes for me.