There are times, I find, when I feel overwhelmed by everything and nothing, all at the same time; when I wish to sit and stare and do nothing at all, while the burning sensation in the back of my mind slowly lessens from a roaring bonfire to glowing embers. Overwhelmed, I say, as I forget myself, from time to time, and drown myself in everything this world has to offer:

Too much work, too much play; too much sleep, too much food. Too much friends, too much music, too much writing, too much reading. Too many games, too many songs; too much internet, too much to do – too much, too often.

And from time to time, the pressure builds, like water collecting at a dam; but instead of a dam, it's only my head – and instead of water, it's only thoughts. And who said nobody had ever thought himself to death? The more I ignore it, the more it grows, until I toss down my pen, my mouse, my books, and bury my face, my hands, myself in a pillow, my pockets, my bed or a chair. I go outside, turn off the music, and listen, and watch, and look at all the people, living their lives. I calm myself, and think.

Burnout is, it seems to me, a periodic reminder from time to time that I am not all I wish I could be. There are thoughts I cannot comprehend, motions which I cannot copy, words which I cannot speak, pictures which I cannot draw, songs which I cannot sing, and many, many more. There is space I cannot use, sleep I cannot get, time I cannot retain for later use; the list goes on and on and on.

It all returns to me, from time to time, to remind me that for all my efforts, I am still human.

I am still mortal.

I am still me.

And yet, I find, there are some comforts to be found in all of this; even in the knowledge that I am weak, in the knowledge that I can do little, in the knowledge that one day I will die and be forgotten – in it all, I find something. I will, one day, die. I will, one day, be forgotten. I know with every day I live that I attempt to accomplish things that nobody will care about, write things that nobody will read, say things nobody will hear, and make something of my name that nobody will remember.

We human beings are transient things; we live, we die. We remember what is around us, and then we forget. What I know now is far short of what my parents wish I could know; and what my children will know is but a fraction of what I wish I could pass on. As I barely knew my parents' parents, so too will my children barely know mine – and the children of my children will know me if they happen to be extremely lucky.

Or if I'm extremely lucky. Either way.

I am one. One out of a couple million in this city, out of a few million in this state, out of hundreds of millions in my country. I am but one. I, singular, am unimportant. A single speck on this country, which but fancies itself to be more than a speck on this planet; which as a world fancies itself to be more than a speck in the solar system or galaxy or universe as a whole. A speck on a speck in a speck in a speck in the universe – thank you Bill Nye – and yet, I am me. I, to myself, am important. I may not be to those around me, I may not be to those who know me, and I will not be to those who do not remember me – but in the end, I am still me.

Which gives me the hope that I live with each day; the hope that sustains me, through every reminder that I am nothing more and likely less than the person next to me and the people around me – that I, maybe, may have something to look forward to when this is all said and done. Perhaps no Valhalla for the glorious dead, perhaps no Heaven for the righteous souls, perhaps no Shangri-La in the Himalayas – even if it is but cold silence, it will, in some way, be peace.

And I hope that, in my lifetime, I will find something important, something strong, something meaningful to live for – and that when I die, I will have found something equally weighty to die for. My name may not be preserved in a book or on a plaque or anything aside the records of the 1990s United States census, but always, I remember this:

Even unsung heroes are heroes still.