A Friend Just Shared a Sobering Thought With Me

….and She’s Probably Right

There’s a comfort in the pages of a book, a refuge where I can fold myself away from the noise of a world that doesn’t seem to hear me. I find solace in the stories and philosophies that mirror my own complexities—hidden in plain sight yet rarely seen. 

The pain of feeling ignored, of not being acknowledged, is a sharp one. It has its roots not just in personal experiences but in the broader, subtle barriers that society places around men like me. 

A Black man, heavy with the expectations of intellect, achievement, and always having to be one step ahead, never slipping up. 

So books have long been my sword and shield, a means of protection and projection. And yet, as my friend Andrea reminded me recently, they can also be walls that keep others at bay.

“Look,” Andrea said, with a quiet whispered tone over the phone, “you’re smart— very smart. But you may be coming off as too intellectual sometimes. Too heady. Too caught up in exploring the deep complexities of life. It’s like there’s no room for anyone to just… flow with you.”

Her words stung, not because they weren’t true, but because they cut through the veneer I’d carefully constructed over the years. I’ve always worn my intellect as armor, reading deep into the nights and sipping dirty chai’s at coffeehouses like some urbane sage, wrestling with big ideas while secretly longing for someone to see me beneath the layers of thought.

But Andrea had a point. Maybe I do hide behind my books. They are safe spaces where I can control the narrative, unlike the unpredictable dynamics of human relationships. 

I’m particularly drawn to Taoist philosophical texts, especially the teachings of Zhuangzi, who speaks of the importance of letting go of the mind’s rigidities. “The perfect man,” Zhuangzi says, “employs his mind as a mirror; it grasps nothing, it refuses nothing, it receives but does not keep.” 

There is wisdom there I’ve yet to master. My mind grasps tightly, not only to ideas but to the need for validation, acknowledgment—a need that remains painfully unmet when hidden behind the perceived aloofness of intellect.

My father saw this trait in me early on. Back when I was in college, burying myself in studies, he’d warned me using the infamous refrain, “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.” 

I remember once, he ordered me out of the house for the night, saying I was too serious, too deep in my books. He handed me $50 and a condom, chuckling as he told me, “Go get laid, have a few beers, and if you get too drunk, call me. I’ll come get you.” 

It was his crude yet loving attempt to pull me out of my cerebral cocoon, to ground me in the reality of being young, Black, and alive. But even then, I felt the pull of the page, the desire to retreat into the sanctity of thought where things made sense.

I am reminded of Zhuangzi’s butterfly dream, where he couldn’t tell if he was a man dreaming he was a butterfly or a butterfly dreaming he was a man. The ambiguity of existence, the fluidity of identity—these are concepts I relish exploring. Yet, in my pursuit of understanding, perhaps I’ve created a persona that’s more concept than flesh. 

My father’s advice, as crass as it seemed, echoed another philosopher, Epicurus, who taught that simple pleasures are the key to a happy life. In his garden, Epicurus cultivated joy not through endless thought but through friendship, modest living, and savoring the moment. It’s a lesson I’m still learning: to step out from behind the veil of intellect and embrace the raw, unrefined experiences of life.

Being a Black man in a world that often scrutinizes every move makes this easier said than done. There’s an unspoken rule that we must always be on, always achieving, always proving our worth. There’s no permission to let up, to be carefree or vulnerable. And so, I lean on my books as proof of my seriousness, my worth. I dive into deep, thought-provoking pieces as if to say, “See, I belong here. I am not to be dismissed.”

Yet, this intellectual smugness, as Andrea put it, can be its own form of isolation. The world doesn’t need more essays on the complexities of life; it needs people who are willing to live it, to stumble through it without the safety net of theory. To love, to laugh, to let loose. 

I think of Zhuangzi again, and his call to “wander where there is no trail.” So maybe it’s time for me to put down the books and wander a bit. To let myself be seen not just as a man of words but as a man of moments—imperfect, unguarded, real.

Clearly there’s a balance to be struck between knowing and being. Perhaps that is the ultimate Tao—to find the harmony between the mind and the heart, to be both wise and wild, to write deeply but live lightly. The pages will always be there to catch me, but maybe it’s time to step out from behind them and let the world catch a glimpse of the person who hides within.

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