I Wonder

I often wonder if I’d been born in a different time whether I’d challenge, or simply uphold the status quo.

I hope the former. I hope not the latter.

But I think I’d likely follow.

It’s a thought which possesses the annoying tendency to unexpectedly drift across my mind at the most inopportune moments; more often than not when I’m driving.

Fortunately, this time I had a pen to hand. An actual pen.

I was quietly amused by how symbolically satisfying I found this to be. Somehow it felt as though this perfectly usual act brought me a little closer to the subversive efforts of those I most admire.

Ever since I first developed something akin to self-awareness, I’ve been softly and silently hypnotised by those who seemingly have the uncommon ability to disregard what others think of them. Or at the very least, not let it guide their convictions.

Oscar Wilde. Nora Ephron. Luna Lovegood. Shirley Chisholm. Alan Turing. Mary Wollstonecraft. Jo March.

There are without doubt others, but these are the ones that presently capture my imagination.

I confess I know next to nothing about each of them, Luna Lovegood aside.

But what I know, I like.

I realise that it’s uncomfortably easy to fall in love with the idea of a person as opposed to the person themselves.

I know too that each individual and their closest confidantes would probably tell me that the shadow to the left of the distinctive figure is in fact rather different in stature.

Awareness of this is one thing. Intrigue in the feeling such icons incite is another.

The intoxicating magic of the inspirational is apparently unaffected by the presence of an interior life. Complications carry no weight. On the condition they don’t break the spell, they simply serve to venerate.

That’s where my infatuation lies.

Exploring the minutiae of every person’s life is invariably interesting. Frequently, I find myself examining the behaviour of total strangers in the street, considering what led them to do or say something and whether it will turn out to be one of the defining moments of their lives.

I suspect they seldom are, but it makes going to Sainsbury’s ever so much more exciting.

Whilst this may be one of my favourite pastimes, I don’t find the delight to be in the detail when it comes to those I, or others, revere.

Understanding their influence on an extraordinary collection of psyches; now that’s enthralling.

Precisely why each of those people are on my mind is something intelligible to me.

Exactly why they’re on others’ isn’t.

Even having read this, you’ll never truly understand how my interpretation of all those for whom I reserve adoration gently incline me toward ingenuity.

And I’ll never faithfully perceive your paragons either.

I’m still unsure as to whether originality honestly exists. Nevertheless, I’m certain that individuality does.

The distinction lies in the fact that all of us are one and none of us are the other.

Yet admittedly, the two are arguably interchangeable.

Perhaps then we should give credit where credit’s due. We may not all be avant-garde and indeed some of us may well be the opposite.

But we are individuals. Individuals who choose to pursue certain paths every day.

Who’s to say which one of us may set myriad others wandering?