identity of the fool

Am I only motivated to write when I'm in pain? Do I express myself in other ways when I am happy? Writing may be a way for me to express confusion or frustration. I often find myself drawn to writing when I am confused because I like seeing the words written down. It brings me a sense of peace to create something that I understand. I'm not sure what that means. Maybe that's normal, a person can only deeply understand and relate to what they themselves create authentically. On the deepest level, I mean. Creations of others can appeal and relate to certain, sometimes very important, parts of us. But our own creations embody us. Truthfully, I've tried writing with the intent of changing who I am. Intent changes, though, and performative motivations invade creation without recognition. That's why I've tried to say things as simply as I can sometimes. Somehow, though, what seem to be the simplest truths end up feeling just as performative as the poetic and complex. I can never get over this confusion. I am not confident in anything other than to say that I don't, and feel that I can not, know myself using my own intelligence unless by estimating based on consistent externalities. Even then, I'm still only using my own thoughts entwined with emotions. I am ultimately unknowable. Maybe I don't give enough merit to the spirit, the intellect which drives the motivation of the spirit. I feel that I am often questioning why my spirit is missing rather than fueling it with choice. Making the choice to be X. If I make the choice to be kind, will my mind be able to follow? I often feel untethered. Without a tether, I feel adrift mentally, spiritually, and materially. I almost feel like my ability to connect with the world around me is somehow broken. Was it always this way? I can't remember. Writing made me a feel a certain connection. The connection I have to what I write and the act of writing seem foreign to most other people. Especially if I am not a good writer. I'm finding it difficult to consider whether or not what I write would make sense from an alternate perspective. Part of that is intentional, me trying to let go of my internal critic. Part of that, I'm afraid, is regressive and limited knowledge about grammar and vocabulary. Many writers advise to let go of the inner critic. I believe that's a common sentiment. However, does the internal critic not play a crucial role in upholding grammatical rules? Is it not beneficial to feel a twinge when a sentence is poorly constructed? Or if the wrong word is used? Once these basic rules become natural and ingrained, then it seems to make sense to let go of the critic of meaning. If you know what you want to say, and you've mastered the tools required, then no other opinion matters. There are the matters of taste and cliché, which seem to both be things one can educate themselves and can also fall into the realm of subjectivity. A cliché is not always bad and taste varies greatly from person to person. Though you could say breaking grammatical rules and using words differently than expected aren't always bad. Those are possibly advanced moves that you can make once you've mastered and understood them. Otherwise, they probably happen accidentally. My point is, I feel stuck at this precipice. It is not that I believe I am great or terrible, it's that I have no clue. Which means either could be true, or neither. Socrates thought it was ludicrous when the Oracle of Delphi told him he was the wisest man, and the average fool considers himself wiser than the rest. Who is the person who wants to be Socrates, believes themself to be the fool, and feels totally unsure that it's possible to know the truth because if they were ever to believe they achieved what they wanted, they know be no different from the fool? And equally, if they believed themself to be the fool, many of the wisest men do. Supposedly. Take this macro example and translate it to fit any skill or ability there is. Do you cut through the confusion? Does that make you one with clarity or a certain fool? Who are you, I wonder as I struggle to hold my few light strands of identity against the bustling winds. Goodnight, my friends and family.