What was he, or she, really like?

 What was he, or she, really like?

History tells a lot about people, who they were, and their influence on our history, but when it comes to the individual we rarely encounter an honest auto biographical account. I say honest as when someone writes we encounter barriers such as shame for our actions, embarrassment, or wishful thinking on the part of the author. It’s only human I believe to try to make light of the truth, however not helpful for someone at a future time attempting to put together an accurate account of the individual’s life. Even I, as I sit here punching keys, find it difficult to tell the truth, so to speak. We’re prone to embellishment, and in some situations accounts of time spent, and our actual involvement, fabricated. It’s an ageing thing, I suppose, to fabricate our involvement, our importance, as time blurs reality. We honestly place ourselves at the centre of importance, when we were not important at all. It’s nice to think of ourselves as heroes, when we were but a face in the crowd.

Why do I write this, because in my dimming years I see this happening time and again with others aged and lonely, as well as with myself. It’s not really intentional, as the speaker truly believes their version of the occasion, it’s simply a means to gain space on the floor. My dear mother, long gone, in her dimming years used to speak of events and her being there, firmly believing they happened, while all the while her sister, my aunt, would shake her head and say that my mother’s recollection was untrue.

At this moment in time we have one of the world’s most influential politician spouting facts, and his influence on world events, as if true, when all around him people look to the floor fearful of admitting that, “the king wears no clothes.” Pity the writer that, at sometime in the future, attempts to compile an accurate biography based upon the autobiographical account of some one living a fantasy.

November 23, 2025