I used to hate mediocrity.
Because I was taught it meant “settling.”
Settling for less. Settling for average.
Settling for the seat at the back of the class
when you could’ve set the syllabus on fire.
But guess what?
The ones who told me that?
They never turned out legends.
They turned out lecturers.
Not bestsellers, just better spellers.
Turns out, “never settle”
was a tacky slogan, a gimmicky tagline, disguised as advice.
Turns out, “potential”
was a polite way of saying “not enough yet.”
And turns out, mediocrity
isn’t failure.
It apparently identifies as influence, these days.
And if it identifies as something
You dare not question the pronouns. Or the adjectives.
Mediocrity is the best foot forward, because
the creme de la creme barely matters —
especially when the majority doesn't have a fucking clue
what creme de la creme means.
Either literally or metaphorically.
But mediocrity?
Mediocrity is beautiful.
Mediocrity is mass-produced myth-making.
It’s relatability with a rhythm.
It’s “been there, felt that, said worse.”
Talk the same tired heartbreak
Seven hundred poets before you have published
and somehow still go viral.
Cry about adulting,
say “capitalism is bad” with enough eyeliner and fluctuating vocals —
boom, a million views
and now you’re the next literary saviour.
I want that.
I want to be a manchild in a thrifted kurta
writing verses about nail art because bleeding poetry like a fistula up your asshole is the only acceptable way to bleed.
I want to romanticize my inability to cook rice and my questionable life choices, thanks to my allergy to long-term sobriety
as performance art.
I want to bleed metaphors about how my glaring loneliness despite desperate attempts to sell my intellect for some predictably lame quick sex like a quick bite at the fast food joint
is not a red flag, but a shade of passion.
Because let’s be honest —
Genius is overrated.
It’s lonely. Tortured. Underrated until posthumous.
But delusion?
Delusion is dopamine.
Delusion is sustainable.
Delusion is guaranteed orgasm without penetration or masturbation, just a lot of conviction in your deranged imagination.
I want that recycled epiphany.
That one-size-fits-all enlightenment
where I can sob into my own echo
and call it therapy.
Where every failure is content because questions ask for self-awareness.
Where every half-baked feeling
is a five-minute monologue
with two standing ovations.
Because that’s the economy now.
The art of self-deception
sold as soft porn for the artistic cravings
of people too tired to ask for better.
I want to be mediocre.
Loudly. Shamelessly. Profitably.
I want to reduce my breakdowns
to bullet points
and my truth
to captions and taglines sponsored by artificial intelligence and natural stupidity.
Because in a world
where absolute agreement is the only acceptable currency and difference in perspectives is equivalent of hate,
where nonsense sells faster than nicotine,
and
art is a privilege when it should have been a necessity
genius bleeds in silence.
Genius dies broke.
But mediocrity?
Mediocrity makes headlines.
So remind me again —
why the fuck would anyone choose brilliance
when bullshit is better for both your economy and your ego?
I know what you're thinking; that's some elitist bullshit right there
Guess who won?
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