Brandon Moore: a True Genius

 Oftentimes I write unconsciously thinking that it makes me free. I debate this strongly. If I'm unconscious how can I be sure that what I'm writing is me? It's coming from my mind and my body but maybe it's an easy copy. Stealing from other people, avoiding this truth. Not just influenced but how can I possibly find the proof? Conscious knowledge as opposed to unconscious connections. I don't know where these words are coming from. Sometimes I assume they're just the sum of every time I've come to the attention of the words and knowledge I've learned and connected. So what am I saying? Am I a poor interpretation of my life, my life being all the experiences I've had including the knowledge I've gained? Am I missing pieces of knowledge that will make it easier to connect current knowledge to current situations? Have I been programmed to live the way I am, lazy and uninquisitive, by my culture or family? Was I born this way? Does it have to do with the habits I've maintained? Why do I often feel unworthy of my values? Why do I feel unworthy of life? If I feel this way, and it is a life or death issue, why am I not in a position in which I ought to create a greater balance of worthiness-to-values? How am I able to live on a precipice of suicidal ideation? Where is my motivation being directed? Is there a problem with my ability to be motivated or with where I direct my motivation? What motivates me? The last question is where I get lost. What motivates me to write this? On a bad day, my motivation is only to be seen and I try to make what I create deep, honest, and concise but I am distracted by thoughts. Do these thoughts distract me or motivate me? Thoughts of greatness, fame, being renowned. Is this a motivator? I felt a sinking feeling when asking that question and I'm unsure why. I don't want it to be true but that doesn't mean that it isn't. I lose touch with honesty. Sometimes I choose to be dishonest and, if honesty is my goal, I allow my desirable imagination to take over instead. So how does this affect what I write? On some level, I am still being honest, but I often talk around what I really want to talk about. I refuse to be direct, and why? Directness and truth must be met with judgment. I can not expect to be accepted simply based on the depth of my honesty. Even though I tend to agree with the idea that all people have thoughts they disavow and are dishonest about their existence, many people would disagree. Perhaps, many people would disagree out of fear of their own thoughts. There is no way to know. So what am I talking about? I'm talking about the fear I associate with my thoughts. The disassociation between them and what I want to believe to be true of myself. Maybe thoughts are more easily controlled when you spend less time with them. If this is true, why is intelligence so revered? Probably because the common descriptor of intelligence is having a lot of knowledge, not having depths of thought on a few matters. I often consider intelligence to be the latter, someone who has a chronic awareness of the external and internal realities, as in understanding what they do and don't understand about them. This a standard that I have held myself to. I wonder if I chose this because of my own insecurity about my struggle to maintain facts and knowledge, or because it seems easier to look around and within from a comfortable position. Or both. I struggle to connect new ideas with my current understanding because I'm unsure of my current understanding. I have spent so much time questioning it and doubting it that I may have neglected to develop it. Sometimes I find information and I look at it with a mesmerizing sense of novelty, as if it's a personal revelation, only for it to be gone moments later. I feel as though I'm trying to understand things for what they are, getting into these ideas and concepts, but I am functionally unable to because I don't have the necessary groundwork. My values of love and honest communication are easily neglected in moments when they obviously shouldn't be. What makes it so easy for me to neglect them? I fear I lack the capacity to show proper emotion and communication in situations when I should be able to, with this fear becoming a belief it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. It doesn't feel right for it to come out, even in moments when it should. Well, now I ask myself where this fear might have developed. I wouldn't consider any of my relationships to have been or be emotionally or intellectually honest. This is probably more because of a lack of trust in other people than an observation of reality. Why do I have this lack of trust? I feel like this question is beyond my understanding right now. I don't like admitting that because I want to be the smartest person in the whole wide world. It's essential for me to accept that not only am I not the smartest person in the world but there is also no such thing. There are smart people, dumb people, and people of average intelligence, and who decides which? Intelligence is more of an opinion than anything else, barring the truly genius. "Truly genius". I feel a connection to that, a desire conflicting with fear. I want it but what would I do with such a title? I would be considered a genius. "Brandon Moore: a True Genius". A genius of what kind? I fail to get past that part in my thinking. I figure this title is enough for me. If I had this title, my life would be fulfilled. I feel this. Yet, even that would be ignoring a massive part of who I am. "Brandon Moore: Another Flawed Person". I don't want to be another flawed person. I want to be perfect. Maybe I can construct this world in my mind where I can be perfect and if I can't do that then I can ignore my imperfections. But wait, I believe intelligence to be chronic awareness of what is and isn't in both the external and internal. If I value this, then I must be acutely aware of my imperfections. I must also be aware of my strengths. Without experience, I can't truly know either. So I want to live in my mind, in a world where I can be whatever I want, while also naturally having desires that can only be pursued in the external world. On top of this, I fail to be the perfect person in my mind because I must be aware that imperfections exist in humans. On top of all this, I fear it's pointless for me to even discuss it because I'll forget all of this in a few moments or days. Which is part of why I write it but then why write it? What if this is all how I'm feeling in the moment anyway and not entirely accurate? Well, it probably still has some insight, right? Not if I don't remember it. Well, it's for other people then. How, you ask? Maybe other people can learn from this. Well, it's presumptuous and arrogant of me to assume that. Well, maybe they'll love me for it. So? What if I'm asked about it. Surely I'll diminish their opinion of it and me and then I'll be back at square one. So what to do? I'll live with all of these, desiring others to read this but fearing my expectations won't be met. What are my expectations? To be exalted and admired? People claim to admire me for my writing, honesty, and self-expression but I fail to accept it. This I'm lost on. Perhaps because I have no true, attainable goal. If my goal is self-honesty, why would it matter the opinion of another person? I will know when I succeed. Yet I want people to admire me for what I admire myself for, but the only person who can truly admire what I've written is me. As long as I'm honest, right? I also aim to learn about myself. Which I fear I can't do, remember? What if I read this another state of mind and it means nothing to me? I'm convincing myself to write for the sake of writing but I have fears that come along with that. Maybe the answer is that I don't need to share everything I write. When I imagine this, I feel a loss of motivation to write at all. I am also motivated by sharing myself with people I wish to share a sense of deep connection with. I can't expect one person to read everything. Can I? Is that me putting a limitation on the love other people could have for me? That's too great a question for me to answer. I can only ask if I have the ability to love another like that and the answer is that I don't know. I suppose I love myself enough to write it, so if another I loved as much I love myself, if not more, or perhaps slightly less wrote something like this, it would be relatively easy to read it, right? I think yes but it must be a consistent, maintained love. There must be trust that I'm not wasting my time and I can use what I've learned to progress and strengthen our relationship. I don't even know what my goal would be in strengthening any relationship. I do want someone, a girl to share myself with. In fact, that is very motivating but again that's an area that comes with so much confusion. How do I proceed? How do I know when I should or shouldn't? Is that even a question I should be asking, is it just a matter of how much I want her? I've let opportunities pass because of my fear. I hide my truth behind a veil of ignorance and I speak around it because I don't know how to speak with truth. This writing, this art, is, in a sense, me practicing the ability to speak my truth truly. I speak in lies not to deceive others but to deceive myself. I know you do too.