You don’t know where you got the idea that you were special. Somewhere along the way you picked up some weird notion of destiny or purpose, you felt as though you were here for a reason, that you would do great things, that though you would die, the world would never be the same for your having lived.
But now you see that it was all a lie, a saccharine fiction. If you had had a stronger will, a keener intelligence, a haughtier audacity – maybe you could have been someone special. You are too weak, too willing to compromise for comfort or emotional peace. Too fearful of driving megalomania into insanity if you push it too far.
So here you are, another mediocre nobody. Your thoughts keep returning to Hitler. Hitler had a sense of destiny, he thought he had a purpose, he was driven and had an intense will. Look at what he achieved, of course he lost, he failed at the final hurdle, but what a journey, what immense, if terrible, deeds.
It is better to be nobody than to be Hitler, this is what you tell yourself. To live a mediocre life, a last man among other last men. Better never to transcend humanity than to hurt them with your lust for greatness.
Turn away from the abyss and look around you at your fellows, each as mediocre as you. Love and cherish them and hope the warmth is enough to heat the cavern of your disappointment.