You're special! You alone are unique and amazing in a way that nobody else is, and you deserve to be recognized and praised for that! Wow, look at you. So amazing and different! How wonderful you are. Everyone else knows it, too. They adore you, secretly, too shy to tell you about it. Just for being you. And what a thing that is!
Now that I've indulged you, won't you indulge me a little? You know not to take a flower from a stranger on the street who talks so smoothly he could only be reciting a script. You know to decline a car wash at a red light. If only out of a sense of obligation, please. I'm so lonely, these days. Lend me a little company and read on, won't you? Darling, I beg of you.
The restless wanderer sits, beckons you closer. "I have treasure for you." He mutters, in a hurried, fevered pitch. "Closer, closer." He bids. There is quiet desperation in his voice. "I'm sorry. Maybe they've gone bad, fermented. I've carried these for so long." He's fidgeting. "But alcohol is treasure enough, these days, isn't it?" He adds hopefully.
When you look at the stars at night, what do you see? It looks mundane to me, at first. I have to ponder upon it to be starstruck. The spots of light are contextualized in scale, both in distance and in time. The same stars that were looked upon for generations all across the world. Only then does my chest feel light. Are you like that, too? Or do you just feel wonder? Why? Is it just because you think you should? They're described as wonderful over and over so often it's beaten into your skull?
Unsteady hands shake as they reach up and press at the traveler's temples. He presses, and pushes them forward. His forehead comes off with a soft rush of air. It's filled with marbles. Some shine gold, others are tarnished and rusted. Others still have decayed to disgusting slime. One of the golden ones falls out with a tilt of the head, falling between the two of you with a soft thud. He looks up at you with desperate, pleading eyes. "Take it." He whispers.
Think about that. How much of what you do is just because you're told other people do it, and you're going along to get along? At some point, it stops being just a social lubricant. You're short-circuiting your brain, scorched chasms in your pre-frontal cortex. The economists say that the incentives shape the results. Why do all of your shortcuts lead to docility?
He tilts his head forward again. More spill out, some golden and shining, some tarnished. A few are covered in that slime. He looks up at you expectantly again. "It's all I have." It's as if you taking the treasure is more important for him than for you. As if by taking it, you're acknowledging that it's more than trash. What man needs acknowledgement in being plundered?
No, no, of course they don't lead to docility! You're no pack animal. Like I said, you're special. When they buy it, it's mainstream, ordinary. When you buy it, it's convenient and pragmatic. When they buy it, it's hipster and gauche. When you buy it, it's self-expressive and eye-catching. By the very choice of buying it, you are making it the right choice, you unique specimen you. Well, when I buy it, it's a weapon of salvation in the holy arsenal. Try to keep up, darling.
He's laughing now, his so-called treasure spilling all over the place, his skull shaking and rattling. The sound is becoming more and more hollow. In front of you is a growing, slimy pile, bright sounds coming from the impact of golden marbles, and grating noises from rusted ones. He grips the rim of his skull with both hands, mouse-tail arms tensed. Tears flow freely from his eyes. "It's beautiful." He says, but it sounds more like a prayer. "It's beautiful, right?" He visibly shudders.
Are things given worth by how important they are to you, or by what others are willing to give for them? Is something's value more important to you, or its price? I know your answer. Maybe you should reconsider it. There's a lot more others out there than there is of a single you. Maybe if they can't do much with it, you can't either. But you're special, of course! All I ask is that you consider the following. The people who answer price unequivocally are the ones who've built everything. The ones who answer value are the ones who want to tear it down in their own vanity.
The flow stops, the incline of his head leaving just a few in there. He stops for a moment, looking around. "Oh." He mutters quietly. Obligingly, he tilts his head forward farther, pulling the rim of his skull down so that the rancid sludge at the bottom coats the pile, and one last golden marble, more luminous than all the rest. He stops shaking. His eyes are vacant. It doesn't seem like he realizes who you are any more.
Maybe you are special, okay! Or maybe you're not! Damn it, all i know is this - everything that makes someone special was built! A prodigy is nothing if they don't build anything special with their talent. What have you built? What grand castles, in the realm of mind or flesh? It's scary not because it's risking failure, but because it's risking success, risking looking at what you've built and being shocked by its small magnitude in comparison to what others build. But no amount of what others build will make you special. You have to do it yourself, and it'll mean more than a million Gandhi or Marx or Rand or whatever quotes.
"Thief! Thief!" The wanderer shrieks. His eyes are fixed on the marbles. "You stole from me! Mine! Mine!" He scrambles at the marbles, his hands failing to gain purchase on any. He doesn't look at you. "Thief!" He slowly grinds to a halt, slumping over his so-called treasure with a wet thud.
Ah, but you've indulged me so kindly, just as I requested. Thank you, truly. Maybe you are special. Or will be. I do dearly hope so.