Incoherent Individual

I’ve never been one to go with the flow, to follow the shepherd, to dance in perfect step. But one trait I feel that I share with the majority of people is my inability to decide. I know there are some who are given two options and there is no hesitation as to which path they take. However since I have this subconscious desire to take the road less traveled, I find myself doubting my left and my right. In a world of six billion people, how am I to know the way less chosen? Or is that even possible to do anymore? I heard someone once say that every thought has been wondered, every action has been done, every word has been spoken. Now I know that there are still so many new possibilities that have yet to be discovered in technology, nature, healthcare, and all of those vast subjects. But for a person, for one person, can they truly be an individual anymore without regards to fingerprints and DNA? Take the fact that I love the smell of “wet earth” as my mother calls it. It is the sole aroma in my grandmother’s deep, dark basement and ever since I was younger, I have pressed my cheek against the cool wall with eyes closed. Each time, I would have this strong urge actually to lick the wall because I wanted the smell to dance on my taste buds. Now I confessed this to my mother a few weeks ago in simply a casual conversation and she laughed at it, claimed it was “odd”. Of course, I agree that it is an unusual thought but surely I am not the only one with such a quirk. With that logic, how am I truly an individual when I’m merely sharing various traits, habits, identifiers with millions of others? Physically, I am aware that I am and there will never be another. Looking at my scars, it is slightly weird to think they're mine. It is as if they should be on everyone's skin. But they aren’t. They are only on mine. They are my own beautiful everyday snowflakes. I don’t know if I believe the same of thoughts, feelings, emotions. Since the dawn of time, surely there must have been one other person who has thought the same bizarre ramblings that have crossed my mind. Someone must have felt the same yet varied pull on the heartstrings to prompt rash and passionate actions. There must be, or has been, at least one other person who is as crazy as I am. And if there is, if there was, then what is to keep me from falling in line and drinking the Flavor Aid like a good little girl?