When all of those around you are constantly lobbing their innermost feelings at you, the choice to not feel so intensely is almost a luxury. To not pretend to be deep when you’re out of your depth. To not mask the mundane and the hackneyed with meaningless, fabricated profundity.
I can be deep, yes. Everyone can. When I’m wallowing in the famed depths of despair, I become a poet, a writer, a philosopher. I drown in my own depth. I exult in my ability to articulate my twisted emotions in twisted sentences. I believe it possible that I’m one of the greatest thinkers in existence.
I am shallow, too. I can’t, for the life of me, be bothered enough to relate the most beautifully captured photograph with the lyrics of the most beautiful song. A picture of me smiling is the same as another picture of me smiling. I smiled for the camera. Nothing profound there.
I admire sarcasm more than I do profundity. Profundity can be annoying. As can be pointing out way-too-obvious lapses in morality. As can be lyrical reflections on the ups and downs of life.
I can be shallow. It’s quite a relief to know that, really.