What’s the point of even trying? What’s the point of even showing up? What’s the point of starting or continuing anything when other people are so much better at it than you? What’s the point of doing anything you’re not already and instantly the best in the world at? Why endure the shame, the laughter, the mockery, the derision, the doubts, the loneliness, the slips and falls, the embarrassment, the never-ending loss of dignity?

What’s the point of even going to space if you’re not going to out-Armstrong Neil Armstrong? What’s the point of having money if other people are just going to have more if it than you? What’s the point of having a TV if it isn’t the biggest in the neighborhood — in the world? What’s the point of having a house if it isn’t the swankiest house in the history of houses? What’s the point of having nice things that no one else can see, let alone realizes are nice?

Are you even worthy? Do you even deserve to learn a language? Aren’t you just clogging up the pipes of the world with your suckiness? Wouldn’t it be better if you just grew up, grew a pair and stopped trying and took your dignity home with you?

Like, better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to open your mouth and remove all doubt, right? At least if you never try, you have infinite possibilities, because nobody in the world knows what you could have become if you had tried.

Right?

Let’s unpack this.
↑ My new favorite catchphrase.

They own at it. But they don’t own it. Not exclusively.

You are not better than Usain Bolt.
And he is not better than you.

He is better — faster — at training for and thus running one hundred meter races (and not even twice as fast, just a couple seconds faster) than you are. But that doesn’t matter because:
1) He totally isn’t competing against you: let me assure you of that. You’re not even in his league, and
2) He’s totally not in your league either. He never could and never will make it into your league. Because you and previous versions of you are the only people in your league. You aren’t competing against him and he’s not competing against you. He breaks his own personal bests (world records), and so should you. You’re competing against yourself, against your beginner self, against previous versions of yourself, against future (yes, future) versions of yourself. We all run alone. We’re all in this alone together.

You and Mr. Bolt both have a right to run.
Leonard Susskind doesn’t own theoretical physics just because he’s doing so much more of it (and so much better) than you.
The textbook writers don’t own the subject.
The top pro leagues don’t own the sport.
The JLPT people don’t own Japanese just because they know more of it than you.

And you don’t own it either. We’re all tenants, and we all get just about one vote in the association.
The penthouse tenant doesn’t own the building: he’s just in its most widely desired unit.
One day, maybe you’ll be living in it.
Or maybe you’ll take the easy, cunning choice and make up your own game — cup-stacking, beersbee and ballroom dancing are all sports — and you can be its penthouse tenant. Maybe you’ll invent the ten meter race, just to prove a point 😀 .

“We are not worthy”, they say.

Of course you’re worthy, you stupid turd. You may suck (for now), you may suck forever, but you’re always worthy.

The only reason you even care about other people is because you spend far too much time thinking of and about them, and far too little time thinking of and about yourself. You know their names, their big dates, their famous numbers and stats, but you barely know any of your own. You don’t even bother collecting your own stats properly; you don’t think they’re worth collecting — and that’s a strange thought coming from a totally unique, irreplaceable, induplicable person.

If you did actually bother to run your own stats, you’d start to notice that all cumulative stats only ever increase (or flatline). Your total number of goals scored can only ever go up. And that alone is encouraging enough to keep you playing forever.

You know how, like, there can be a chick…sorry, a sheila — who’s been your friend forever and never even registered on your radar, but one day you suddenly start thinking she’s cute?

You are that chick. And you’ve never bothered to notice yourself. You’ve never bothered to take an interest in yourself. You’re just the chick next door. You’re just the guy who lives across the hallway, with whom you share an awkward-but-comforting familiarity…sometimes you say “hi” to each other when picking up the mail, but try to avoid eye contact because you can’t think of what to say for smalltalk this is not autobiographical by the way 😉 . You’re just the inhabitant of your body.

So, back to our original question:
What’s the point?
What’s the point of it all? What’s the point of any of it?

There is no point. But it might be fun…if you let it be.