I know not what I speak of

My comprehension of knowledge has always been difficult for me to share or speak of. I’m finding it does not rest solely in my brain, that my brain is merely a receptionist. For lack of a better cliche I would have to call it a sponge. However, when that sponge gets squeezed in order to assimilate and perceive more of my surroundings, nothing is wasted or trickling down an abysmal drain to the depths of nowhere. It disperses throughout my entire body, temporarily satisfying an inexplicable hunger that keeps me awake at night. I don’t know the answers, I cannot speak such things or give a pragmatic reason for my hyperbolic confidence. I know nothing, yet I feel everything. This unequivocal feeling of well crafted knowledge consumes me and enlarges my vehement ego into a state of weariness. It defines me. My exasperating contempt is driven and fueled by this visceral and perplexing infinite knowledge. I feel what others can only dream.


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