Seven-year-old Benedict presents me with a raspberry. It wobbles on the palm of his hand as he looks me in the eye and intones (unexpectedly) 'This is the GENIUS of YOUR LIFE.'
I eye him back and counter with 'Maybe. It could also be a FINGER WIG.' Two minutes later, four small fingers are wearing fruity wigs. Raspberry nan hairdos. Less thought-provoking that the genius of your life, but more visually satisfying.
The thought hangs in my head, long after the raspberries have been variously eaten and trodden into the kitchen floor. What exactly IS the genius of my life?
It's interesting phrasing, assuming that a) your life has a genius, and b) it is singular. The point of your existence. I have spent the majority of my life, like many many people, searching for my purpose. (Except when I watch a Brian Cox programme and start thinking about the universe, and realise that it REALLY DOESN'T MATTER.)
I envied my closest friend at school, who was fairly competent at most things, but absolutely brilliant at playing the violin. There was never any doubt as to the genius of her life. She got a scholarship to the Royal College of Music - her path was clear and simple as a Dick Bruna drawing.
I desperately wished for a similar clarity of direction. Preferably with an unambiguous signpost.
Maybe it does exist (the signpost). Maybe I've just never spotted it.
Far too busy putting fruit wigs on my fingers.
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