As a relatively powerless person in the grand scheme of things, I have had very little experience with the phenomenon of power.
Not many people have access to it, mostly due to a lack of desire on their part to be anything in particular. Which is a good thing, maybe.
Also, there is that saying, with power comes responsibility.
I omitted the ‘great’, because ‘great’ power only applies to a minuscule fraction of humanity. Not everyone is born to be an oligarchical king. And country leaders oftentimes don’t hold full power (like Donald Trump, thank God), unless they are Kim Jong-un. They have massive responsibility, but they shirk it, to their moral detriment.
My interactions with power are few and far between. There was that teaching stint I had for three odd years. I felt mighty then. I managed many classes of 30 children, at all age levels, and I controlled them very well. I was in charge, I was looked-up-to. I had authority.
I was also responsible for anything that might go wrong. But I enjoyed that responsibility.
I wouldn’t class myself as ‘power-hungry’, but sometimes, just sometimes, I like to feel impressive.
Even if it is for a very short amount of time.
Like cruising down a highway, the beast beneath me building momentum slowly in that German way it has (no acceleration, but excellent speed maintenance), the budding strength of the car creeping up on me until I’m doing 90mph and ripping past everybody else, engine growling, wind screaming, countryside scaping.
It is the most terrifying, exhilarating feeling.
Snaking from lane to lane, outdoing other cars, hands tight on the steering wheel, sharp bend approaching, swaying with the car as it grips, oh so beautifully, to the tarmac, and round we swing.
I feel electric, powerful, mighty, fast, euphoric.
For a brief few moments, I am the queen of the roads, the devil behind wheels, the racing champion, sailing in a beast with the wind currents. The car bends to my will, and lends its strength to my desires. We become one terrible entity.
I could fly off the tarmac and tear through the atmosphere.
I could do anything.
For a brief few moments.
And then, great responsibility crashes through my power-high, and I remember the tarmac, and the speed, and pain of impact, and I reluctantly take my foot off the accelerator, and slow down, and match the humdrum pace of other commuters.
Sometimes I am forced to because humdrum commuters create obscene traffic, and how very dare they.
I guess you could say I, too, am a humdrum commuter. But I don’t see myself that way.
I am the queen of these roads. Move aside for my majestic power.