There’s something about being busy that can put us under the illusion that we’re really making a difference in the world, nevermind that this so-called world may be the massively limited range of our own life.
I suspect that scheduling appointments on Google Calendar, rejecting calls from ‘small fry’ and dashing between coffee shops and lounges for “big meetings” does make the head grow slightly bigger.
And that’s fine, really. More or less.
It’s kind of okay as long as you contain that overdeveloped sense of achievement and the smelly pride that trails it.
I mean, no one needs to know how high you get from finally getting your life together. You don’t need to make noise: this shit is basic adulthood and you’re probably late AF to the party anyway.
Infantile noisemaking aside, the actual crap starts flowing when you begin to think the moves you’re making matter more than other people’s moves; that you somehow deserve to be heard first or above someone else’s voice; that you are entitled to an audience and respect and recognition strictly because “Can’t you see how far I’ve come?”
Sometimes, your relevance is all in your head and in the heads of your groupies (aka the people who encourage the world’s worst singers to go on The Voice when their entire career should have been contained in the shower).
Think of your perceived importance as Zimbabwean dollars: inflated quantity that doesn’t translate to actual worth.
Can’t you see how irrelevant that shit is?
And even in the impossibly rare moments when what you’re doing is clearly crucial to the world beyond your life, you really shouldn’t be the one bragging about it. That’s tacky as hell.
So you’re moving mountains, eh? Great.
Now, sit the hell down and let other people beat your drum while you carry on dancing with humble dignity.