little

… I've little confidence in practically anything I say or do. I'm confident in my thoughts, however, because I am the sole inhabitant of my head space, and being the lone occupant I don't have to obscure my shortcomings from the presence of others. People have expressed to me that they enjoy some of my writings, and they enjoy hearing\reading my thoughts and opinions. When exposed to the light of company, however, it becomes painfully clear that my thoughts, ideas, opinions are shit and completely unoriginal. A true thinker or intellectual can substantiate his or her ideologies with a backdrop of history and its recorders. I wish I could casually inject into my writings and conversations splices of storied thought, or openly discuss the writings and philosophies of Sartre, Nietzsche, Camus, Kierkegaard and Dostoyevsky, but I can't. At best I possess a passing knowledge of these men and their works. I've read Nausea and The Stranger. I own Notes from Underground but yet to crack its spine. My knowledge is akin to the man who reads headlines and claims to know every crevice, every detail of current events. He's full of shit. The dunce is king when he reigns over the ignorant.

I've never been good enough. And when I tried I always fell short.

xx