Why writing is an enigma?

The definition of a cliche is "a trite, stereotyped expression; a sentence or phrase, usually expressing a popular or common thought or idea, that has lost originality, ingenuity, and impact by long overuse."
Rather than face fear or use the confidence that I know is inside this body and mind I rely on cliche to get me through my days and nights. I self-depricate to get to the puch line about me before others do. I'm corny, but tough and good-natured. I rock the grung look ten years after it was in. I use it to my advantage, seemingly not to care what people think about the ripped jeans and over-used collared golf shirts. I try to emit the persona that this look works for me, when in reality I'm not trying to rock a look or be retro. There the only clothes I have. All other things being equal, clothes shopping for myself has not been a priority in my life, eventhough I know most people who see me are judging me on how I look. It's a constant source of obvious ignoration in my life that I always fantasize about changing, but never do.
I encounter many different people every day between work, the commute and home. I judge all of them. Anyone who says they don't judge other people is a liar. I don't want to judge, I just do. "People in glass houses shouldn't throw rocks", right? I've never seen a glass house and if I did it might just be too tempting not to hurl a stone or two.
Neitchze talked about life as an illusion, or at least most of what we are faced with in life is an illusion. Religion, media, government, all illusion. These words I type need to be stripped naked and taken for what they are worth; nothing. My words are an illusion the moment they are transfered from my thoughts to this page. This piece of internet, a virtual reality. "Virtual" meaning not real.
A cliche. A cliche is nothing more than the easy way out. Cliches are part of the illusion of life. I do know that there are moments in life that are real. As real as slicing your finger to the bone with a box cutter when all you wanted was a screwdriver. As real as the ripples on a lake. As real as a child's concern when they learn what it means to die. The real moments aren't told to us by some supposed authority, we experience them. My only authority is my skin, my tongue, my ears, and my eyes. "Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me." I guess sometimes it does work.

They call the Rising Sun.....

As a teacher I get to renew and reflect during the summer. This past week I went back to work. We didn't have students yet and the roads were relatively uncrowded so I decided to drive for most of the week instead of take the train. My path to work leads me away from the sunrise.
I would pick up my bagel and cup of coffee and head out. The radio was telling me about the Mets, the Yankees, the four alarm fire in a project in the Bronx, and the half hour wait on the Van Wyck. Staying in the lane is difficult when the caffiene hasn't kicked in yet and cars are flying past you so their riders can get to their job that they hate faster. I have precious little time to site see.
I glance in the rear view mirror as habbit, rather than courtesy. I see a glowing orange orb still married to the horizon wink at me. If I were to read all texts dedicated to the sun it would probably take me twenty lifetimes and then some. The sun gives life and takes it away on a daily basis. We are all connected to it, drawn to it, worship it in our owm way.
The sun reminds me of the begining and that nothing is permanent. We all look to prove our own strength, our own worth as compared to others around us. The insignificance of this is proven with one small glance at the sun.
It's mythical, constant, and unrelenting--like life. It brightens our spirits and burns our ground. Without it we die.
That one glance for me has stuck in my visual memory for some time now. I don't know why. All I could think about was the beauty of that moment, that glance. It makes me think of the beauty of my children, my wife, great works of art, verses from a certain song, or line from a poem. With all the harshness that infects this world there is beauty that balances it. I just wish I took advantage of that equilibrium more often.