Демиурги Мазукта и Шамбамбукли сидели в чистилище и...

Demiurges of Mazukta and Shambambukli sat in purgatory and sorted out human souls. They took them out in one of the big baskets and laid them out in small heaps.
“A good harvest,” Mazukta remarked ratherly.
“Well, not really,” objected Shambambukli, looking at another soul. “Look, what a petty one.”
He brushed off the order and the medal from the soul and threw it into one of the common heaps.
“Strange somehow,” he muttered, frowning. “Where did he get that much?”
“What are you talking about?” Mazukta did not understand.
-Yes, that’s interesting. All people, in general, are about the same. A little worse, a little better, but in general they do not differ much. And they also live in approximately the same way, for someone a little easier, someone harder, but not much. But sometimes great people meet with a great soul - and for some reason they always have a problem on a problem! At every step they get a forehead from life! And on the other hand, every trifle lousy, which seems to be inappropriate, receives all the benefits and worries of life does not know. Why is that?
“Well, you ask questions!” Laughed Mazukta. “Well, do you think this world was created for the sake of great people?” Well, yes, there are geniuses and saints in him, but they do not constitute the bulk of the population! They are exceptions to the rules, and the world is designed for an average person, of which the vast majority. Everything for their convenience ... well, or almost everything.
“Is it like right-handed and left-handed?” Guessed Shambambukli.
“Yes, roughly,” Mazukta nodded. “Technique, tools, even door handles — everything is fit for the right hand, and left-handed people have to adapt themselves.” Here are the saints - like the same lefties. They do not fit into the picture of the world, they are not comfortable here. Do you understand?
-Understand.
-Rules are created for middle people. Average height, average weight, average wealth. Take, for example, such a thing as an ordinary door. Most people go through any door without any problems, bending their heads slightly to the maximum. A man of great stature (as well as a great soul) either gets constantly on his forehead, or is accustomed to bow. As for the different, as you say, small brats, they do walk wherever they want, and under a closed door, if necessary, squeeze through and get into the keyhole. And in ordinary doors, which are for everyone, they pass in a row, and even sometimes on the shoulders of others.
Mazukta scratched his chin and continued:
-Sooner or later, any genius or saint gets tired all the time to bang his head on the lintel. Some begin to bow automatically, in front of each door. Some surrender and fall down on all fours - then with a high probability someone jumps on top of them. This is normal, the ordinary struggle for existence. That is life.
“And what, for geniuses, no hope?”
“There is hope,” Mazukta admitted reluctantly. “Sometimes it happens.” Occasionally, maybe once a generation, there is a person who will beat his head against the jamb all his life until he breaks it. And this genius is easier to pass through this door after.