A Collective Biography

The age had been good for humans. After the brown death had been overcome. The times were prosperous. Mankind was reaching out to the stars. Great achievements were made.

Humans left the face of the earth to walk on the moon. They found the secret code to the realm of nature. They split and glued the tiniest elements together and thus released great powers. They lifted arts to new heights. They fought against the ancient ideas of their parents and for their right to live according to their own ideas, and to expand their minds. Political ideologies were thriving and gave chances to create utopias and to develop ideas to make a better living. Hence the youth had ample opportunities to develop their own personalities and to grow. Philosophical thoughts were developed and concepts were created to end tyranny.

The Gods frowned upon those endeavors. Masters of the universe they had been, before man had pushed them into oblivion. But the Gods did not worry, for they knew what mankind was made of. Every period of creation was succeeded by one of destruction. It was the eternal repetition of the same that kept the Gods from worrying.

The peaks had been climbed and staleness was steadily sinking in although as yet unrecognized. Intellectual leaders were killed and artists of all genres began to enter Hades in great numbers while man was walking on the moon. Wars were fought and the struggle against them were of no success It was the beginning of the decline.

In the rise of the stale period the Newborn was thrown thirty and one years ahead of the break of the third millennium.

The ignorant elders who believed the good times would never end, thought great opportunities lay ahead of the Newborn. They gave him presents and worshipped his arrival into a pulsating universe of infinite chances.

Hence he was made to believe that he was chosen to participate in the shaping of a new future and to continue the endeavors for a better dawn. Thus the Newborn raised his fist to the heavens and shouted at the Gods:

— Fear my complexion! For I am going to make you tremble in fear. Your times are over. With my arrival the times of your reign have drawn to a close. I will push you in the dirt!

And the Gods did not tremble but laughed at the outburst of human arrogance — for thus was the way mankind had been since their first steps on earth had been made.

And the Gods replied:

— Thou shallst suffer the unbearable hunger of the satiated.
— Thou shallst long for fame and fortune. But it will be denied to you.
— Thou shallst dwell your life in mediocrity.
— Thou shallst never see the heights or lows of human existence.
— Thou shallst crave for anger and pain; love and joy. But thine only emotions will be slight discomfort and mild pleasure.
— Thou shallst not be chosen to do anything extraordinary.

And the Mediocre said:

— You Gods cannot scare me. By choosing me to be mediocre you have chosen me and made me special.

And the Gods laughed and replied:

—Thou art not chosen. The same destiny will be shared by millions of your fellow newborns. For this is not thy personal fate but that of your generation. Thy mediocrity is that of a nation of millions.

And the Mediocre did not believe it and he was eager to prove the Gods wrong and to spit at their predictions.

Thus he grew up in a perfectly ordinary way. His family was neither unhappy nor happy. His father did not beat his mother and his mother did not terrorize his father. There was no pain or grief to be experienced and neither were great inspirations. It was the curse of the middle class.

Worse was the abundance in which he had to live. Neither richer nor poorer than others, he had everything he wanted and nothing he desired apart from the desire itself. The good times his grandparents and parents had fought for were established and nothing crucial was left to be wished for.

He was raised in a time of indifferent tolerance, and rebellion was futile. Not that there was anything to rebel against. The loss of shortage was all he had. But the loss of shortage was nothing to desire and the absurdity of his existence was burning in him.

And the Gods had given him wit. Not enough to be a genius but well enough to perceive the plights of his existence in the still waters of insignificance. For among him there were people who were better at sports, were smarter, were more popular just as there were those who were worse at sports, that were dumber and were less popular. He was in the midst of the pack. Neither the first nor the last.

The Mediocre's achievements in school were nothing but average and the numbers of A's exactly matched the E's he collected. His main companion was the loathed C.

And the red empire crumbled and fell and great hopes were once again growing for a final peace and harmony among all men. But soon new conflicts were emerging and new wars were fought. The Gods nodded in agreement, for it was the eternal repetition of the same.

The omnipotent power of the books was brought to him by school. And he read the Communist Manifesto and the lives of Ghandi and the Reverend King. He was convinced that the times of change would continue and that his youth had the power to improve the world and even out the few plights left. But those plights were not perceived as such by others and mending those was not in the interest of society, for Western man was benefiting a great deal from them.

And that was the time when he became aware of the superior beauty of the female. But when most of his male companions were to taste the sweetness of the woman, he never succeeded. And he was forced into watching the sexual explorations of the superior and beautiful while the females he craved ignored him. His thoughts had already started to alter and the loner he was to become began to demand tribute. Thus he was not able to relate to the woman, just as the women weren't able to relate to the male. The pluralistic society had nothing but one God. And that God was called individuality. But sometimes the God is the devil at the same time. For individuality is opposed to the urge to mix and interact. And thus a nation of loners came into being with the wish to make friends but the lack of ability to compromise. And the nation was a nation of selfish egomaniacs.

Thus he took up the discipline of arts. He wrote down the stories into the books, forced his views onto the canvasses, and molded his mind into the clay. And his aspirations were dedicated to wooing the female. For he knew well the concept of love even though his egocentrism was refusing him to experience it. The female received the books, took the canvasses and accepted the clay. They were flattered and walked off. But the Mediocre did not give up and it did not concern him that those females he finally was able to woo did not appreciate his writings. For this was the reason that later on he was to give up writing for the amusements of others and develop his own style and plots to express his mind for no one but himself and to remain in the realms of lonerhood.

The Mediocre was craving for the existential experiences of win or loss. He was longing for authentic feelings rather than the fake sentiments presented by current culture. He was craving for pain or hunger or lust or pleasure, but that which was given to him was canned and fictional.

The only desire was that created by the companies of vanity trying to sell their useless products. But the Mediocre was too smart too fall for their lures and thus there was nothing in it for him.

And the Mediocre took the seven syringes and filled six with water and one with bleach. He wore the blindfold and chose one syringe at random. And he shot it in his veins. And it was water. And he took another one and when he was about to pierce the skin he realized the stupidity of the task. And he lifted the blindfold. And it was water in that syringe.

Thus the Mediocre searched to find himself a place outside the hustle and commercialism. He tried to dive into the subculture, away from the stale irreality of mass media and the vendors of the dark liquid refreshments and the manufacturers of the Goddess of Victory's shoework. But as soon as he or his fellow nerds found a place to dwell in, the vendors followed them. And they moved closer and jovially said:

Good morrow kind friend: We know what thou feelst and that thy live is deplorable. So come on along and have a refreshing beverage. It was especially made for thy generation. Purchase it and be unique!

Some of the fellow Mediocres were lured into believing this, as many followed the lures, but his was the feeling of resignation for he knew that he was manipulated by the vendors, and whenever he tried to dodge out into new realms, the vendors were already awaiting him, offering the refreshing beverages after his exhausting search for freedom.

And the Mediocre raised his voice in great anger and he began to contemplate anarchy and rage against the machine, and he called for major changes and the breakdown of society to recreate it with new life as the only solution. And he shouted and raved. But once he contemplated this, he knew that those ideas were silly, and he came to his senses deprived of yet another hope.

And the Mediocre shook his fists at the Gods and was heard:

— I fear you not! Your punishment cannot harm me. I will prevail! For I have the rage against you.

And the Gods laughed and replied:

— Thy rage is senseless, for that what thou longst for is not what thou wouldst appreciate to gain. Thou wantst to strike a deal with the devil. But the devil is no one to bargain with.

And the Mediocre wanted to weep but he knew that his was the fate of a nation of millions.

The Mediocre decided to read about those that shared his fate and became accustomed with the works of Kafka, Camus and Sartre. And he decided to read the works of the offensive. Hence he got knowledge of X, Hitler and Nietzsche. And he fought their views and succeeded in disproving their thoughts.

And the Mediocre discovered that he was different in some way. His views became twisted as a result of his self proclaimed seclusion. The arts he cherished were dark and existential. He sat down and wrote stories about outcasts, freaks, cripples. He painted existential outbursts of pain and anger. Some of his characters were longing to become mediocre for their complexion and fate was too uncommon to be bearable. And thus he compensated for his own mediocre destiny. Soon his own character was to grow on this and views rarely had by man were appearing in his mind. He was realizing his uniqueness.

And the Mediocre shook his fists at the Gods and was heard:

— I fear you not! For even if you have punished me, I am unique in my mediocrity. And there is no one with a mind as mine. I am unique! And the Gods laughed and replied:

— Thou mayst be unique but thine uniqueness will not raise thee out of the mud of average, for your fellow mediocres are just as unique in their ways. And thy craving is the source of thy loneliness. Thou art not made for seclusion.

And the Mediocre wanted to weep but he knew that his fate was shared by a nation of millions.

And his character was that of a sober and calm man. No outbursts of joy or rage were his. And the misanthropism he claimed was that of a philanthropist. And he was rational enough not to experience love or hate but nothing more than mild affection or dislike.

His fate was shared by an uncountable mass. Some were different in that they made it into the lime light. But those that succeeded in expressing their sentiments were not satisfied for they knew that the success they experienced did not mend their plight. And yet their successes were stinging the Mediocre and only making him more aware of his mediocrity.

And the Mediocre shook his fists at the Gods and was heard:

— I fear thee not! For I will continue to struggle my way out of my fate. Even if I may not succeed, I will not surrender!

And the Gods laughed and replied:

— Thou mayst struggle but thy struggle is thy punishment. Thou hast heard of Tantalus whose arrogant wish to walk among the Gods has caused him to dwell in a state of eternally unfulfilled desires by being hungry without being able to reach up to the apple, by being thirsty without being able to reach down to the river and by fearing the falling of the sword above him. Thou hast heard of Sisyphus, whose lust for life has caused him to fulfill a terribly useless task by rolling a rock up a hill and failing to succeed. Thou hast heard of Kadmos whose greed has caused him to dwell in a state of insatiable hunger and eat an entire wood without ever finding relief.

— Thy guilt is thine inability to submit yourself to your fate. Thy greed, thine insatiable hunger, thy lack of will to be content with what thou hast and furthermore thine obsession with individuality is thy curse.

— Thy rebellion is thy punishment. For it will never be fulfilled.

And the Mediocre wanted to weep, but he knew that his fate was shared by a nation of millions.

And the Mediocre continued anyway.