Doubt

I write because I must. Yet, I can't imagine anyone less fit to write or speak.

Who am I to proclaim what "true" love is?

Who am I to decide what the highest moral good is?

Who am I to publish my unfit, unrefined thoughts?

I see how flawed I am, and I'm sure that I don't see the full picture.

In fact, I struggle most days. I believe that clarity is the highest moral good, yet I find myself constantly fighting the fog. I spend so many weekends returning to the works of Seneca and Simone Weil just to feel that clarity.

And yet, the more I read, reflect, and write, the more lost I feel. I read to return to clarity, but leave heavier with unknowing.

The more I seek clarity, the more obscured everything becomes.

The ironic truth is this: when I feel truly lost, I feel closest to the space where clarity should be. In those moments, something about me feels empty.

Empty, but not hollow.

Lost, but deeply found.

Not where I need to be, but exactly where I should be.

In those quiet moments of emptiness, I feel the most awake.

I don’t know why I feel morally bound to keep reading, reflecting, writing. But, I do.

Even now, writing this, I feel clarity slipping away. Perhaps it's not something that I can hold, only something that I dissolve into.

I am the least fit to write or speak. Maybe that's the point. I don't write to reveal clarity. I write so I might disappear enough for it to emerge.