I didn't have a choice

I didn’t have a choice.

No, you wait. I tried really hard, really hard, yet it was impossible. I get the whole complex interplay argument. This is something I’ve researched, you know. Our genetics are the same, same upbringing and, except for later in life, relatively the same life experiences. This weakens the case espousing the moulding of genetic tendencies, don’t you think?

Brain structure, you say? The networks connecting the frontal, temporal, and parietal lobes, as well as regions like the hippocampus, all play vital roles in reasoning, memory, and emotional regulation—key factors in shaping personality. Yes, I’m aware of that too. It’s a logical explanation, and one I can grasp. What’s next—are you about to bring up the birth order now?

No? Alright then, how about the Big Five traits that psychologists employ to describe personality? Let me try to recall them: agreeableness, conscientiousness, neuroticism, extraversion, and openness to experience. Yes, that’s all of them. But how much influence did I really have over my unique mix of these traits? That’s the question, isn’t it? Well?

I agree—everyone’s distinct combination of values, beliefs, emotional tendencies, interests, and skills sets them apart. That’s something we both recognise. Even individuals with similar upbringings or genetic backgrounds can turn out quite different, simply because their unique experiences interact with their biology in specific ways. Still, isn’t social maturity just a way of encouraging certain traits? After all, you can’t completely change who you are. I mean, you can’t stop being you.

Of course, self-acceptance is vital, yet the frustration persists. The acceptance of loss.

An example? Certainly. During the COVID-19 lockdown, my brother and I took a photograph every day in and around our home—a way to find appreciation even while confined. One day, I snapped a picture of our garden, filled with blooming flowers. It was pleasant enough. My brother, on the other hand, didn’t just photograph the rhododendron bush in its entirety. Instead, he focused on a single, striking cluster of vivid, bell-shaped blossoms, illuminated perfectly by a shaft of sunlight angled as if just for them. When I looked at the rhododendron, I saw the whole vibrant bush and recognised its beauty. But his photograph revealed something different—something more.

Elaborate? It’s difficult to put into words. It was as though the sunlight, momentarily released from the greying clouds, slipped through the emerald leaves to touch lightly, caringly caressing the carefully coloured clusters and highlighting each bloom’s intense individual beauty. It felt as if the light was heralding each blossom’s triumphant singular beauty - existing as it must, being part of a massive garden creation, yet still a flower to live and die.

The photograph did indeed capture the essence of the moment for that cluster on the rhododendron bush. That’s precisely my point. Why is it I need a photograph to reveal the exquisite beauty of a scene I’ve already witnessed, yet failed to notice in the same way? Why do I rely on a photographer’s perspective to help me see the world differently? Why must I wait for a photographer to engage with their surroundings so that I might shift my observation? I’m always looking for details, patterns and moments, constantly assessing the light, shadow and yet where is the composition in my drab, uninspiring photographs? Where is the story in my bland, though colourful, bush image? Where is the emotion I wish to convey?

Yes, I am aware that photographers intently engage with their surroundings, actively seek and strive to craft the compelling composition, grouping elements for their proximity and continuity. I understood this in theory, yet it remained unattainable, always felt just out of reach. I genuinely tried. I did. Photographers seemed attuned to the slightest shifts in the light and colour and mood – subtleties that always seemed to elude me. I looked. I wanted to see but somehow could not.

You needn’t inform me photographers use light and shadow to create depth, highlighting subjects, evoke feelings. I am aware of that, yet I cannot replicate what they do. My photographs are lacklustre. I sought the unique, the fresh perspectives, the unfamiliar in everyday life and still my images were ordinary, never extraordinary. Never securing an interpretation which resonates on a deeper emotional or intellectual plane.

Self-development? Believe me, I’ve attempted to cultivate a more discerning way of seeing. Sorry, I shouldn’t have raised my voice. But I can’t help but wonder why others were allowed to capture and express the world with a richness, more nuanced than my everyday perception? I mean, it’s not that I aspired to become a renowned photographer or anything like that - I just wanted to experience life as vividly as others seem to.

Yes, I understand every person is unique. Still, I couldn’t help feeling left out when sunsets moved others to tears, storms thrilled them, or the ephemeral beauty of a flower deeply touched them. Our experiences of reality just aren’t the same. I truly attempted to let myself be guided—you know that.

I agree. While someone can be guided or inspired to be more creative, the actual creative spark surely comes from within. You can nurture it, but you can’t teach creativity. It’s something innate. People talk about having a vivid inner world, but I’m the type who doesn’t even realise the butler did it until the unravelling at the end of the movie, let alone imagine writing a novel myself.

Different traits? This provokes my anger. I didn’t have a choice.

You say it was just a different experience. At work, whenever I stood at the whiteboard, I’d always jot down numbers. Meanwhile, others would sketch pictures, diagrams, and interconnected ideas that captured the bigger picture. It was as if I did not understand.

Yes, they depended on me for the numbers, for the bottom line. But that’s exactly my point—I was always focused on finding, or even fixated on, the bottom line, as if that single figure was all that mattered, the ultimate truth. But is it actually? Where is the truth found in a number? Numbers are a language, and while I can solve equations and construct mathematical truths within their own logical system, those truths exist independently, detached from everything else. Why should they standalone? Can’t our sensory experiences reveal truth as well—maybe even more so? Why were we so hampered, so limited, for our experience?

You may have a point, and one could argue that the universality and consistency of many mathematical truths indicate that, even if mathematics is a human invention, it uncovers deeper structures that seem objectively real.

Alright, I’ll admit that my mathematical ability did provide a certain clarity that others often overlooked until I brought it to their attention. And I recognise that my natural leaning towards mathematics has shaped the way I see and experience the world. But my original point remains—I had no choice, and thus cannot be held responsible.