There is something intriguing about voting. People of greater minds, and fingers, than me have expressed this. But at its heart lies the inviolable nature of democracy; voting is not merely voting, but the upholding of a time-honoured and intergenerational tradition.
It reminds me very much of the orgasm. Not everyone is doing it; especially the young people, many of whom say that they are despite the fact. The older people we don’t like to think of ‘doing it’, but they do it regularly and with more vigour than we imagine. They’ve made their mind up who they’ll ‘do’ long before, and it’s a conservative and respectful man who you truly despise. But you let them do it because they have the right.
More importantly, it’s a little uncomfortable, a little stuffy. You use your pencil, and then you realise that yours is only one of millions, happening in the world at this moment, and that the pleasure will of course subside. When you’re doing it, you realise that it’s a little formal and you’re going through some robotic motions. But whilst it’s happening, as you uphold something greater than the sum of its parts (whether this is the grand democratic tradition or electrical impulses racing between synapses), there’s nothing more worthwhile.