sadness
There are many among us who aren't nearly as clever, smart, driven (hence accomplished) as the best of us. I long ago recognized that I was in the camp of the former. Long ago. ::chuckle::
As such, I've largely worked and existed within my limitations, to the best of how I'm capable. And even with that, haven't accomplished things in the usual ways that signify success in one's endeavors, in the arc of one's given lifespan. This has not troubled me greatly — though perhaps that might indeed be part of the problem, if by 'accomplishment' one means that a person has to genuinely rage against the dim, undistinguished light of their mediocrity.
Once in a rare while, I do things that make someone look up, look in, and appreciate the doing. Which I in turn appreciate; but my default tendency has always been along the lines of "...sorry, don't look here, nothing special is going on, don't waste your time, which is better spent elsewhere." Much of that is genuine low self-regard, some of it shyness, some apprehension. A good thing, then, it doesn't come along very often. ::chuckle::
Do I wish I had more in the way of acumen, clarity, wisdom? Why, of course... who wouldn't want more of these things. But, in the spirit of ruthless reality that someone in their 7th decadal cycle of life ought well to embrace, I accept that my portion of these qualities has not been as generous as the ones doled out to the more fortunate. (It's another matter entirely, but exactly who or what does the 'doling out'? Well... genetics, geography, circumstance, Zeus, surely some combination of the above.)
It's not that I consider myself unfortunate; in fact, quite the opposite — when I really think about it (in the limited ways I am capable of such) I do feel very lucky to be living in this day and age, and to be doing so where I am at the moment. I don't gnash my teeth at notions of it-could-be-better-elsewhere, even as the fact of that is uncomplicatedly true.
At the end of the day anonymity is genuinely my shield and sword (probably in that sequence) against travails both real and imagined. Does it work, though? Yes, more often than not, admittedly. But when it doesn't, then sadness falls like a heap of dung upon my hapless lap, and the very ordinariness of the unremarkable becomes a faint and vanishing succour, and I indulge in the pathetic excess of garment-rending, such as this post is and has become, today.