There are some things I would hate to be an expert on.

Take magic, for instance. Witnessing live magic shows used to blow my mind. I would replay tricks in my mind days after, searching for an explanation, before shaking my head in childlike wonder. Magic truly existed. The day I found out most magic tricks were some combination of misdirection, props, or sleight of hand, I was disappointed. The world became slightly less bewildering; less vibrant. The magic I once believed in had vanished.

Love presents a similar paradox. One of the saddest professions in the world is a pick-up artist, I think. Love’s beauty lies in its unpredictable, awkward nature. Being an expert in this field, knowing precisely what to say or do to elicit a response, removes its charm.

There are other examples I could list – food, movies, music, to name a few.

I do strive for excellence in certain areas. But for others, overanalysing and understanding too deeply strips away their intrinsic mystery. In these cases, I prefer the blissful ignorance of childhood.