Every inspiring figure of the past, and pretty much everyone in the present too, would disagree with some point of your personal politics. Your view of the world and your hopes for it might not be unique, but they are rare–vanishingly rare, compared to the raucous river of rationales representing each human who has been, or each human who is. And that goes quadruple for each human who could be.
Most of those people are not searching for your truth. Most of them are quite happy with the clarity and comfort of their own positions, thank you very much. This holds even for many of the revolutionaries you admire–few heads are steady enough to serve as stolid stepping-stones. And after all, isn’t there such a thing as going too far? You yourself believe in limits of some kind, don’t you? What says yours are any better than theirs?
Perhaps you would be able to convince them, given time. To show that your principles follow naturally from a honing or smoothing of their own, or to provide them with crucial missed facts. Some of them, anyway.
What about the others? And what about other people’s heroes? Fuck ’em, maybe. But that’s not an argument.
In the end, perhaps there are only the skepticisms. Do what seems to heal the most suffering, or bring the most joy, or preserve the most structure. In the end, we probably have to stick to our intuitions and our drives, and balance them as best we can–or else fall into despair or apathy.
But it’s worth noting that everyone else, pretty much, is doing the same. Many of them are starting from somewhere quite close to you. Would you reach out to hold them, even if it set you wobbling? Wade over to them, pitting yourself against the pull of the current? If you don’t, where does that leave you?
How dry were your feet to begin with?