Within the books of philosophy are the secrets of all knowledge and wisdom that make us human.  I know that they are ignored for the fanfare of glitter and shiny toys and yet I persist.  Some call it a waste of time and energy but I must learn to smile and crack a joke at my own expense or be taken as arrogant.

I revel in science, but am not a scientist.  The analytical is paramount, but I am not a business man.  I follow words as if they are a rare and beautiful animal but am not a poet; logic not literature.

With the shadows dancing on the walls I point out the wooden puppets and yet I am the fool; I will accept this, but only with time.  I must find warmth in loneliness and comfort in the dark fortitude of Truth.

The ideas dance in my head, connected so clearly by the logic that bounds us all.  The ideas are clear but the terms are vague and misunderstood; misused, philosophy is a weapon of enormous magnitude and dismissed as a toy by most.

I am that person that sits silently in a corner, perhaps a glass of scotch in one hand and a book in another.  I have given up on the world of society and it on me.  But that is OK, only because it has been so for thousands of years.