Extraordinary. That's not a word one hears everyday, is it? Extraordinary implies something special, something so very different from normal that it blows minds and invokes awe. Everyone wishes to be associated with that term at least once in their life. Or so I thought. Until now.
My childhood was mostly defined by my experiences with my elder sister. She was always special in a way that no one realized. Extraordinary in fact. She had dreams and passions from a very young age that I still do not have. The day still remains etched in my mind. The two of us were curled up on the sofa watching a Disney movie. I was eleven and she was twelve. I remember the seriousness with which she suddenly turned to look at me and said "That's what I want to do when I grow up. I want to design clothes. I want to be known and I want to leave my mark in this world". Sometimes I wonder why these words always stuck with me. But then I remember.
I remember going to bed that day feeling insignificant, doubting myself. Is it wrong that I don't have such dreams? Is it wrong that I don't want what she does? Will I hopefully become like her when I grow up? Some of those questions still haunt me.
Even as a child I've always liked rules. I've liked the concept of familiarity and rhythm. It means that the path has already been written and paved for you. You merely need to walk it, making your choices along the way. There'll be no surprises along the way, just the familiar twists and turns that aren't overwhelming, but gentle and steady. I never wished to be the best student in class or the best writer that I could be or even the best version of myself. I wonder why.
If you ask me what my passion in life is, I don't really have an answer. I've never been extraordinary at drawing or singing or dancing or even dreaming for that matter. However, I do have dreams. Ordinary ones.
I dream of a little apartment by a park some day where I might sit and work amidst the noise and rush of the day. I dream of a steaming mug of tea waiting for me when I get back home from work. I dream of writing till the very end and maybe having the courage to share my works with not just strangers, but with the ones that I truly care about. I dream of my mother smiling freely without a care in the world. I dream of living peacefully. And then passing away just as peacefully, without a sound, without a mark in this world, without any indication of my presence, except for the memories that I leave behind. I know this might sound boring. Or even insignificant in fact. I know my sister would, for it lacks flare and purpose. Yet I find that thought strangely relieving. It makes me happy.
Maybe in a few years I might look back and laugh at the naivety of these words. Maybe I would be a different person with different dreams. But for now I just wish to be. To simply be. Perhaps I'd have reached great heights if I'd been different, if I'd had better dreams or aims in life. I guess I'll never know. I like being ordinary.