Making Life Cliche.

We’re all running around trying to project images of intellectualism and worldliness when half the time we’re just being self-righteous and pretending to transcend the status quo and being someone worth something. We try to exude our self-perceived intellectual prowess, thinking we have some grasp of the metaphysical that those lesser couldn’t possibly understand, but half the time it’s the lucky idiots that turn this entire goal of being respected on its head. We put these words together, forcing them to at least appear aesthetically pleasing to our eye and perhaps no one else’s. The biggest fraud is no one has words that can really express what they mean and rely on the permutations of word combinations to try to make it look good if they can’t find the winning combination. We’re driven completely by what others will think, but our most emotionally invested attempts to expose our souls are found in these very pages, safely kept from judgmental eyes. What is it to know someone? Do you look towards a collection of trivial knowledge, a standard of time spent with another person, a person you can safely confide in? I’m not really sure if anyone completely knows me, but oftentimes there are people I understand better just by seeing a look in their eyes than people I have known for years. Is this a failure of the lack of adequate words, or simply our fear of becoming vulnerable?