the crushing weight of personal expectation

At what point do you accept that you aren't going to be special?

When do you acknowledge that the world will not tremble at your passing?

How do you accept that you're just another face in an insignificant mass?

I don't have answers for this, anymore than I had answers to the nihilistic despair that hit me in my twenties (eventually I realised that 'it is what it is' and that freed me - it took a while though to just let go). Do other people have these same conceits as they grow up? I'm not sure it's any different to the hordes of 18 year olds raised on a diet of celebrity that assume that desire equals realisation. I'm not even sure of what it is I'm feeling like I've missed.

It would help if I had an idea of what I was supposed to *be* - but I have no clue, just a sense of not meeting some expectations that I can't even vocalise into a coherent form. Currently I'm putting it down to winter blues and some frustrations about work that are just colouring everything else.

Maybe it's a midlife crisis ;)

Bah.