I was made for greatness, but I wasn’t made great. I was born for glory, yet there’s no glory on being born; simply a small victory in staying alive just another day. Although breathing is no triumph in itself, and living is as obvious as how purposeless our existence is. Or maybe it’s only my existence that’s lacking sense. Though I was destined for more. Or is this “more” a minimalist sentence? A “less is more” kind of thing? Then I have exceeded any expectations set upon me. Then, my greatness is a self fulfilled prophecy and the gods smile at me from above. They smile at my success in underachieving as a champ. Fuck yeah!