Recently, a friend had enough courage to ask me, “do you know what you’re talking about?” That was one of the most painful questions that anyone has asked me, but it was one that I have desperately needed to hear for some time. I have become so complacent in my own intelligence, knowledge, confidence, and extensive vocabulary (essentially, my ability to present a vaporous, inflated image to the world, forever afraid that it will be pierced by a discerning gaze). I forgot humility (or did I ever know it? I suppose not.). If Proverbs would label anyone a fool, I would be a supreme one. So here let me resolve. Let me not multiply words when I know not what to say, when the silence would reveal my ignorance. Let me not refuse to listen when I realize my error. Let me listen sevenfold the time that I speak. Let me release the compulsion to air my opinion, the fear that people might think I agree with something that I don’t. Who really cares, anyway? It’s not about me. I feel so happy…yet so crushed. I want to cry and laugh and panic. Am I really abandoning the suppositions on which my life has been built? Am I really losing my identity (read: autonomy and pride)? Well, yes. My heartbeat stutters to say so. I am worthless. Dead. And who cares? None. Let me rise. Let me see the light again. I know I will. I already can. But to be wrong…so wrong. When I obsess over being right. What a sense of irony God possesses. But what perseverance, also–to keep pushing me out of my conceited bubble, one step at a time. To cause my path to cross that of one who would care enough to make me uncomfortable. Who would not let me be fake, for once, destroying the mask, unfooled by smoke and mirrors that were the vapid foundation of my perfection, my image.