I have accepted, belatedly, that I ought never–or never again–be a leader, or, at least, never one anyone would dare to want.
I have realized, belated, that I hold followers of any sort in deep (if shameful) contempt. I do not trust those who willingly abandon their freedom and decisions and responsibility to others; my psychology shudders, however inadvertently, at any who’d want someone else to guide their lives, or provide a poison-gift of answers; I am, finally, afraid of what I’d bring. Because were I handed the mantle of leadership, ever, I would lead only to the edge of some glorious precipice, and, into it, leap.
I would fall, of course; I am no angel, and all endings are at last the same.
(I would fall, of course, but perhaps–or certainly–some of those who followed would fly.)