The shells of life deceive us from seeing the soft kernels of ourselves. A man’s personality is a shell, conditioned to be as the world once, somehow, saw fit. A personality defends the soft kernel of childlike emotions that sit anxiously layers beneath the facade of his flesh. Parents, schools, media and the society at large has weighed upon his shoulders a strained requirement to look and behave a certain way. Beyond a quite specific age these layers of personality build upon themselves to such degrees that many men find themselves detached, perhaps altogether, from their inner sense of sincerity. They forget their Peter Pan and lose who they actually are, replaced by an ego of fictitious needs and desires.
What we are is rather quiet amidst the noisy crowd of what we have become. It is rarely heard in modern life, and what is left unheard for far too long will at one point surely starve and whither. The world would have you fill the space with clutter, just so that this personality of yours is fed incessantly by the false stories of what you should want, and can have, in a game of utter shadows. There are either things that must be done or things that must be got, yet happiness by this bankrupt philosophy is always just beyond grasp. This role you call by a certain name, given by your elders, hardly ever had a chance to become its own self, for it was forced to imitate out of everything external a caricature of what it once could have been.