“Iss duniya mein sab kuch bechne ke liye hai, bas apni asli pehchaan bechne ki zaroorat nahi hai.”
Ah yes, the obsessive need to be absolutely brilliant; because nothing screams “true intellectualism” like frantically name-dropping obscure philosophers and pretending to have a deep existential crisis over a book you only skimmed. In our desperate quest to appear cultured, we have mastered the art of performative intelligence instead— carefully curating our every thought, opinion, and creative endeavour to ensure we seem appropriately sophisticated. After all, why waste time actually engaging with ideas when we can just recycle impressive-sounding buzzwords and call it depth? Don’t get me wrong, like each one of us, I found myself caught up in this game of controlled sophistication too. It made me wonder, is my reality, in fact, a chamber of repeated ideas and polished personas? Or am I just “very cultured”?
A well-timed Kafka reference in a group chat, a Murakami novel artfully placed beside a matcha latte, a tote bag that says “God is dead,” calling emotional instability “very Dostoevskian“, a Kierkegaard quote in a dating bio, saying “nothing really matters” but fighting to the death over Letterboxd ratings, carrying around The Communist Manifesto for who knows what reason— and the list is pretty much endless.
Of course, there are those who genuinely find joy in philosophy, literature, and art—not as a means of social validation but as a way of self-expression. The problem isn’t intellectual curiosity itself, but the pressure to package it for an audience rather than experiencing it for one’s own sake.
Art, by its very nature, thrives on authenticity, spontaneity, and emotional honesty, qualities that vanish when we are more concerned with appearances than with true individuality. We constantly second-guess our creative impulses, tailoring them to align with what we believe will be deemed “intelligent” or “cultured.” As a result, our artistic expressions become performative and pretentious rather than sincere, shaped by external expectations rather than internal vision.
What happens when our stories are shaped by insecurity rather than insight? We become characters in a script written by expectation, speaking lines we think will earn applause rather than expressing what truly moves us. Instead of using conversation to explore, challenge, and connect, we reduce it to a tool for validation—an echo chamber of intellectual posing. But the truth is, the most compelling stories aren’t the ones that strive to impress; real narratives—the ones that resonate, that linger—are born from sincerity, from the messy, unfiltered exploration of thought and feeling.
Take, for instance, something as instinctive as anthropomorphism—yes, a big, gigantic word, but one that describes something we’ve all done effortlessly since childhood. Anthropomorphism is the tendency to attribute human traits, emotions, or actions to non-human entities. It reflects our urge to impose familiarity, structure, and meaning onto the world around us. It is when we don’t just watch the wind rustle the trees; we imagine whispers and conversations between ancient beings. Whether it’s giving personalities to constellations, emotions to the ocean, or even backstories to our favourite coffee mug, anthropomorphism allows us to see the world not just as it is, but as we imagine it to be. By crafting narratives around inanimate objects, animals, and even abstract concepts, we transform the chaotic and unpredictable into something relatable and understandable.
But here’s where the irony creeps in: what was once an intuitive, almost playful act of our imagination, now has to be dissected and justified through layers of philosophical and literary analysis. We can no longer simply feel—we must explain, label, and validate. Even our most instinctive ways of making sense of the world, like anthropomorphism, must now be dressed in academic jargon to be taken seriously. When we stop obsessing over how our narratives will be perceived and start telling them with sincerity, we unlock the kind of depth that no amount of philosophical name-dropping can create.
It often happens that in this chase to seem insightful, we experience the world not for what it is but for a “deeper meaning.” Like how a sunset isn’t just a sunset—it must symbolize existential longing; how a novel must unravel the deep-seated desire for YADA YADA YADA and what not. At what point did we decide that the only way to be taken seriously was to complicate the simple and obscure the obvious? When did clarity become a weakness and verbosity a sign of intellect? When did saying something plainly mean saying something poorly?
Maybe, just maybe, the true expression of intellectual security lies in the “I don’t know, but I want to” moments that we so desperately try to cover up. And in that space of curiosity, without pressure to prove anything, we might just stumble upon meaning—not in grand theories, but in the simple act of wondering.
Yet, sometimes I can’t help but wonder if half of academia is in-fact a long-winded prank just to see how much gibberish people have the potential to understand. But really, who am I kidding with this non-sensical bullsh**? The real masterpiece is the carefully curated illusion of sophistication— crafted one smug, hyper-intellectual remark at a time.
-This article has been written by Ipsita (4th Year).
