Extraordinarily Average

      He was extraordinarily average and had decided long ago to be so.  It wasn’t one, life-altering, conscious decision that had been made, but the cumulative effect of a collection of smaller, less imposing decisions that had turned him into what he had become.  He was average in a way that few are; good at everything, great at nothing.  He was the jack of all trades that would never become king.  He had no aces up his sleeve and no queen on his arm.  Surrounded by jokers in a world unfit for his acquiescence, he lived a life too short for his ambitions.  Too lacking in attention to ever focus on one thing long enough to master it, he preferred instead to move on to the next once the average had been achieved; the modern day Renaissance man.
      Most things came to him effortlessly and he paid no attention to the rest.  He remembered with ease the names of people he deemed important enough to remember and quickly forgot without second thought the names and information of those he did not.  He spoke multiple languages to varying degrees under the pretence that he wanted to be able to talk to everyone, but in fact, he preferred the silence and would raise a solitary eyebrow when he heard people describe it as awkward.  His modesty was a byproduct of trained politeness and, when outshined by his natural confidence, appeared forced to those who lacked their own and were threatened by anyone who walked with their back straight and chin up, though his gait was different.  He was fit but not muscular; body of a runner.  Light tan in the winter that he’d kept from the summer.  A writer and a reader.  More a giver than a needer.  A low-income housing builder and a soup kitchen feeder.  Raised as a Christian, he lived like a Buddhist.  Tried to be Muslim but kept following the Tao.  He was two continents short of seeing the world and he knew that once that goal was accomplished it would mean nothing in the scheme of things and he would therefore have to design a new goal which, once completed, would be replaced by yet another.  There would always be more so he would never be done.
      His lack of passion often led to ennui, which, in turn, would have led to depression if he hadn’t been too proud for that sort of thing.  He kept his sanity be challenging himself to accomplish certain tasks, large and small, and each item crossed off of his checklist was added to the collection without ceremony or enthusiasm; just another thing done. 
      Eventually he would find what he was looking for, but first, he would have to start searching.