There is something so quiet and subdue in the murmurings of a special-snowflake intellectual. The arrogance exuding from their pores. the breathe that trickles between their chewed and licked on lips. The concerned-but-too-aware-to-truly-care look painting over their eyes. The definite crease in forehead from the furrowing of the brows while in deep, exuberant thought. None of the qualities scream at anyone as an intellectual saunters past him, with books stacked high in the air. I wish I could breathe someone like that into my lungs, inject him into my veins, or profusely sweat and let the sweat dry all over my body with an upcoming breeze, leaving her thoughts sticking to me for hours. I wish I could feel the experience of then wishing for a way to heave the air out of my lungs, replace the infected blood in my veins, and clean the sickly sweet smell of sweat from my body. I’d regret letting someone in like that it. I would regret it.
All because of that arrogance.
Arrogance has often brought up repugnance in me. Nonetheless, it has also caused me to grin in an incurable, comfortable state of satisfaction. To be certain that someone (perhaps even myself) feels that confident in his or her wits just never fails to prove that we all have a breed of special-snowflake intellectualism freshly brewing in us like coffee in a latte machine. I’m honored to feel that even for a mere moment, I am an unambitious mimic of Dean Moriarty.