Bit of a strange thing to say, I suppose. But give me a chance, and let me stumble out my thoughts.
Books, movies and music influence us. Experiences shape us. Our childhood and its doings mould us. Friends and family touch us. Make us. It all combines to form us into who we are today.
You like Beethoven, I prefer Vivaldi. And yet, this doesn’t make me unique. A thousand others prefer the same. A thousand others prefer the same and watch, say, The Great British Bake Off whilst snacking on Digestive biscuits.
With the number of people on this planet, who can truly say that they are totally unique? What makes you – the individual – truly you?
How much of what I write is truly myself, or an echo of what I’ve read or heard or seen? And does it matter? Should I try to be something totally different, or strive to do the best with what all my experiences, influences and memories have given me?
Are these the bricks with which I must build? Or must I throw it all out because it’s not unique or original enough?
I’ve left this post for a little while – allowed it to simmer in the back of my mind. I think I’ve reached a conclusion though. Perhaps it goes a little like this:
A fish cannot soar above the clouds, and a bird cannot explore the ocean’s secrets – I cannot be what I am not, but I can be what I am. Or rather – I can use what I’ve been given. Fins for water or wings for flight.
I am only me, but that is enough. I’ll do the best with what I’ve got. Not stale and still, but striving and moving and learning and building and on the whole becoming the best that I can be.
For in the end, it doesn’t matter if I’m not unique or original. Our worth is not bound up in such silly things. As that song goes: look through Heaven’s eyes.