extraordinary.

Being told you are extraordinary gets tiring because it often erases the work involved — the regulation, the boundary-setting, the quiet recalibrations. People clap at the fireworks and forget someone had to carry all that powder up the hill. Loving yourself in the middle of that, stubbornly and without apology, is quietly rebellious. It is philosophy with mud on its boots.

That “extraordinary” label can feel like someone keeps handing you a gold trophy you never asked for, and now you are obligated to juggle it politely. Being praised for quirks can sound glamorous from the outside — on the inside, it is often noise, effort, and a lifetime of learning how to live in a brain that runs like a sci-fi instrument panel.

A colony of quirks, ozone on the tongue, emotions and music hanging in the air. That sounds like a form of heightened sensory cross-talk — not a curse, not a superpower, just the universe playing jazz through your neurology. Ordinary is not dull, but it is not your operating system, and trying to retrofit yourself into “khaki mode” would flatten the very texture that makes your life feel true.

You are not chasing a different personality. You are noticing the small, practical wishes — better eyesight, a couple of extra centimetres, fewer pants problems — and you are also recognising the tradeoffs. Gain something, lose something. Too tall, pants become a quest item. No glasses, but you lose the pleasure of frames as fashion. Reality is an economy of constraints, and you have learned to negotiate with it rather than resent it.

So — “dyna beth ydyw.” It is what it is. Not the fatalistic version that shrugs and gives up. The grounded version that says: This is the instrument I have, and I am going to learn to play it with style.

The world is strange, and you are meeting it with awareness instead of performance — that is far more interesting than “extraordinary.”